


The Season of Honey

by notallbees



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Alpha Bucky Barnes, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Anal Sex, Canon-Typical Violence, Coming of Age, First Time, Knotting, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Mutual Pining, Omega Steve Rogers, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Rimming, Scent Kink, Scenting, Teasing, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-29
Updated: 2015-09-01
Packaged: 2018-04-17 21:35:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4682255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notallbees/pseuds/notallbees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steven is Prince of his kingdom, and according to tradition, royal omegas are deflowered by the champion of a tournament on their sixteenth birthday. Ser James is a knight returning to the capital for a chance to compete, and though it's been years since he last saw the Prince, his heart belongs to Steve still.</p><p>But before the tournament can take place, the castle is stormed by invading barbarians, who abduct Steve with the intent to sell him at a Southern slave market. Will the rescue expedition, led by Ser James, arrive in time to avert disaster?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. James

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lickerish](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lickerish/gifts).



> I have already done fanart for this story [here](http://notallbees.tumblr.com/post/127878946640/bonus-the-taste-of-dried-apple-a-brief) (SFW) and [here](http://notallbees.tumblr.com/post/127107080065/i-couldnt-choose-take-me-steven-gasped-i#notes) (NSFW), and will probably do more! Follow me on [tumblr](http://notallbees.tumblr.com) to see it :D
> 
> All I can say about this story is that, sometimes, you just have to do what the id tells you. And by id, I mean [lickerish](http://bangawang.tumblr.com/).
> 
>  
> 
> **WARNINGS: Please read the end notes for warnings specific to this chapter!**

It was late evening when Ser James and his companions finally drew within sight of home. The company had ridden for many days, and all were in a state of keen anticipation at the thought of a real meal and a bed to sleep on. There was another excitement, however, that drew them on with such eagerness. The Prince's sixteenth birthday was a mere fortnight away, and preparations would already be underway for his coming-of-age celebration. James's companions were all of them required—by tradition and propriety, if not by law—to be present for the occasion.

"Tis a fair sight after so long, is it not?" Ser Thor called out to him, urging his mount alongside James. Alroy, James's squire, obediently fell back to a respectful distance so that the knights could converse.

"Aye," James said agreeably to Thor, looking on the distant castle with a swelling sensation in his chest. He spared a glance back at Alroy, who had fallen into conversation with the other squires. It always amused him to see Alroy quietly following orders, when for the most part he was as aggressively overprotective with James as a mallard with her ducklings.

"Tis not the castle he longs for," Ser Natalia called out from behind them, with wicked humour in her voice. "But something still more fair." James threw her a filthy look, which she returned with feigned innocence.

"Yes, how fares your young student?" Thor asked in cheerful tones, ignoring the tension between James and Natalia.

James smiled with reluctance at the thought of him. "Not so young anymore."

"No indeed," Thor said, followed by his rich laughter. "But still much to learn in certain arenas."

The intention behind his words was unmistakable, and James closed his eyes and sighed heavily. "You're a pair of jesters," he cursed, before nudging his weary horse into a slightly more brisk canter.

They gave chase half-heartedly, but all knew that James didn't really seek to outrun them, only to speed his arrival at the castle.

 

 

By the time they had reached the castle proper, stabled their horses, eaten, and bathed, night was fast approaching. Even in these summer months, with each evening stretching out long and wistful, the cool darkness came eventually. After a long, hard ride in the sun, James was grateful to be still. There was an immense pleasure to be found in seating himself in a deserted courtyard and watching as the stars began to bloom above him.

The feast raged on within the walls, but James was weary of company, and it was pleasant to sit in solitude and listen to his friends enjoying themselves. He had not sat long, however, when his solitude was broken.

"Ser James?"

He looked in the direction of the voice and was surprised by who he saw.

"Your highness," he said quickly, dropping from the stone bench to his knee.

The boy laughed and came closer. "My Lord," he said, softly amused. "Whence comes this formality?" He touched James's shoulder. "Rise, please, you'll make me blush."

There was a little light from a nearby brazier; James had selected his seat for the proximity to the fire, and he stood slowly, looking into the boy's pale countenance. The Prince had grown a little since James had last seen him, though his stature was still modest, his form slender. His face had shed a little of its puppy fat and his limbs no longer called to mind a thin-legged wading bird, but there was still something avian about his movements, the way he held himself. He had always been quick and flighty in training, but in James’s absence he seemed to have acquired a stillness that emphasised his delicate movements. 

"I'm so glad you have returned safely," Prince Steven said at last, his voice quiet but effusive. He held himself tightly, as though he wished to move closer and did not know whether it was permitted. James couldn’t help but smile; the boy had never been shy with him before.

“You have grown, I think,” he said warmly, reaching out to hold his hand flat at the peak of the Prince’s head, level with the burnished circlet he wore. He drew it back and pretended to consider for a moment. “At least three inches. Soon even I shall not be beyond the reach of your arm.”

The Prince laughed and rolled his eyes at the gentle mockery. “I’m pleased you’ve returned with your good humour intact,” he said with a shake of his head. He then inclined it toward the stone bench, and sat, waiting for James to follow before he spoke again. "What do you do out here all alone?"

“Merely thinking,” James said, tossing it out carelessly. “It is of little consequence.”

“I know a little of the workings of your mind, Ser James,” the Prince said quietly. “Whether it is bent to mischief or to war, it is always of consequence to me.”

James turned away from the fire, afraid that his feelings would be writ across his face. Whatever they were to one another, the longing in James’s heart had no hope of satisfaction. It was better not to look it in the eye. “Your majesty is too kind.”

The prince exhaled softly. He moved his hand from his lap to rest on the cold stone between them. After a moment’s hesitation, he pressed the backs of his fingers against James’s thigh. 

The anticipation of his touch made James's fingers prickle, but he did not dare take the prince's hand, even in comfort. He would not permit himself to take such liberties. “You should return to your attendants,” James said gently. Then, to soften what seemed like a dismissal, he added, “But perhaps tomorrow we can resume your training, if you wish it.”

"I should like that." Steven pulled away. "Forgive me for intruding."

James smiled at him. "Your company is always welcome, my lord."

The Prince stood. "Tomorrow then."

 

 

"On your feet, whelp," James commanded after he had knocked the Prince down for the third time in as many minutes. James had been summoned from his lodgings shortly after dawn, and he and Alroy had shared a meagre, hurried breakfast. He’d sent the boy back to his bed as soon as he was dressed and made his way up to the keep, where Prince Steven had already been waiting for him. 

He had leapt to his feet the moment he’d seen James, beaming. "Ser James!"

"Your majesty," James had said, suppressing a smile. "I hope you have as much enthusiasm for your training."

The Prince had looked a little chastened, but he’d nodded. "At least as much."

"Then let us begin."

Now Steven struggled to his feet with a scowl on his face, but despite his frustration, he looked alive with the thrill of action. "I think you take delight in knocking me down," he called out as he armed himself once more.

James snorted with derision. "I take no pleasure in dominating those weaker than me."

To his amusement, the Prince flushed heavily and stammered when he tried to make a response. James lunged for him whilst he was still struggling, but the boy parried him with a swift movement. 

"Much better," James said with a nod of approval. "But remember to move your feet. You are no oak."

Steven nodded, his jaw set, and looked up. "Again?"

They drilled for almost two hours, and by the end of it the prince's form had much improved. James suspected that the boy had barely lifted a weapon in the months that he'd been away, and he was surprised that the queen was not more strict with her son. She was the greatest warrior of her line, and he wondered at her allowing her only child to lapse so in his own training. 

"Perhaps she does not want him to fight," Ser Thor suggested when he mentioned it to his friends later that night. "The company of his knights is by no means paltry; he will have no need to fight his own battles as ruler."

"He is not strong the way she was in youth," added Ser Sharon, sadly. Then, seeing James's expression change, she added quickly, "Strong in mind and spirit, yes, as strong as any man I have known."

James looked away with a grudging noise of assent. "Perhaps that's it. She means to keep him from harm's way."

Ser Natalia, quiet until this moment, suddenly burst forth with a chuckle of disdain. "Your time abroad has blinded you all to the castle's workings," she said, shaking her head. She glanced about, but apparently satisfied herself that they were not likely to be overheard, and continued in a lower tone. "The queen is ill, deathly so. The Prince has been much occupied tending her, and studying for long hours in preparation for his rule."

"So soon?" James asked, startled. "He is not yet sixteen."

"Yet once he is, he may rule unchallenged," Sharon said with a shrewd look. "In that case the queen must want him ready. Is it as bad as that?"

Natalia shrugged. "None speak openly, but rumours pass through walls like a hand through water."

"You would do well to check them," Thor said sternly. "Much damage can be done by a few ill-placed words."

They continued to converse and bicker, but James rose from his seat and left their company. He had sensed that there was something different about the Prince, but had assumed it was simply the approach of his ascension celebration preying on his mind. He walked without destination in mind, and was unsurprised to find himself shortly at the great entrance hall of the keep.

Several servants were attending various occupations in the hall, and James attracted the attention of one without difficulty.

"I'd like to request an audience—" he paused and frowned at his own audacity. "Nay, perhaps you would carry a message to the Prince."

The woman tilted her head with a sulky, expectant look. James cleared his throat.

"Ahh—simply tell him that Ser James came to ask after his mother. And that I shall make myself available tomorrow should he wish to train once more."

"Yes, m'lord," she said, her voice as sullen as her expression.

He watched her go, willing her to hurry her halting pace. He longed to tear up the staircases and find the prince's chamber, to present himself to the boy on bended knee. James felt the longing settle in his gut and he shook his head at himself. Lusting after a place in the Prince’s bed would be one thing; many would soon be vying for the chance to serve him as Champion, after all. But when James thought of the Prince, his daydreams ranged far wider than simply bedding him. 

At last a servant—not the one he’d sent, but a young boy—returned with a message, and drew James aside to a quiet corner to recite it for him. 

“His majesty will meet you at dawn,” the boy said solemnly. “But he wishes to hunt, not to train. He asks that you bring your steed and accompany him and his servant.”

James nodded. “Please tell him that I would be honoured.”

The boy sloped off, and James stepped out into the cool night, feeling at once hopeful and heavy-hearted. In his head he could hear the Prince’s laughter, and the thought of hearing it again—being the cause of it—filled him with sense of joyful anticipation. He had gone but a few steps in the direction of home when he heard a low voice call to him. 

“Home just in time, I see,” Ser Brock said, stalking out of the shadows. “I suppose the chance at honour is too great to miss.”

“Brock,” James said in a cold tone, electing to keep walking. “I heard that you had gone South.”

“Like you,” Brock said, falling into step beside him, “I wouldn’t miss the chance to plough our fair Prince.”

James coloured, a thick rush of emotion roaring up inside his chest. “How dare you speak so?” he growled, rounding on Brock. “He is not some farmer’s runt, to be haggled over and tumbled for a fair price.”

“Isn’t he?” Brock said evenly. “Tell me then what a tournament achieves.” He smirked, and James felt his intestines writhe in hatred. “He’ll bend over for the most worthy, and whether the test is coin or mettle, I shall always be victorious over a peasant like you.”

The anger in his chest spread to his arms and made his hands shake. James clenched his fists hard. He felt powerless in the face of his desire to strike the other man, but by some miracle he restrained himself from doing so. At best he would bring shame on himself for settling matters by such base methods; at worst, it would mean a duel, possibly exile. Even in disagreement there was a strict unspoken code for the behaviour that knights were expected to show toward one another. He drew away, still squeezing his hands tightly. 

“Then I shall take my defeat with grace,” James said as steadily as he was able.

Brock just gave a cruel laugh and shook his head. "I’m going to fuck that girlish little bitch until he’s begging me to stop,” he murmured. 

“The Queen will hear of your disrespectful behavior,” James said in a disgusted voice as he forced himself to turn away. 

"The queen won't lift a finger," Brock said behind him. "Goodnight, Ser James."

 

 

"But why does he ask _you_?" Alroy whined as he lifted James's tunic to him with weary arms. "Anyone could take him to hunt."

James looked at him sternly. "I do as my Prince commands, child, as should you." When Alroy just huffed, James narrowed his eyes. "Without question."

"Yes, m'lord," the boy answered in a sulky voice. "Sorry, m'lord."

He bowed his head and began to fasten James's belt for him. His fingers for once were slow and clumsy, and he had to try three times to fasten it. 

"Alroy," James said, frowning at him. 

"M'lord?" he muttered without looking up. 

James shook his head. "Nothing, I must be going. Get some rest and go to Ser Natalia when you wake. I am sure she will have some employment for you."

Alroy answered him with a sullen yawn and his hands lingered on James's waist before he turned back to his bed. 

With haste, James gathered up his things and ventured outside to prepare his horse. The air was brisk for midsummer but it would warm as the sun rose and burned away the low mist. James stepped through it, rubbing his hands to warm them. His mother had always warned him that faerie folk stalked summer mist: brownies and gnomes and the like. Even as a child he'd thought it was nonsense, but he smiled to think of it. 

Lost in thought, he did not notice the figure waiting in the stables until he was almost upon them.

"Good morrow, Ser James."

He stumbled, inhaling sharply, and drew himself up short in front of Natalia. 

"Curse your tongue," he cried, laughing at himself as he caught his breath. "That fright has shaved a year off my life."

"It is not like you to be so easily surprised," she said quietly, moving aside so that he could enter his horse's stall. "Your thoughts are elsewhere this morning." James chose to ignore her and went about ensuring that his horse was well fed and watered before the day began. Natalia did not seem dissuaded, however. "Agreeably occupied, I hope?"

James glanced at her. "You are thinking of the wrong boy. My mind is all done up with my squire this day."

At that, she genuinely looked surprised. "With Alroy? Whatever for?"

He sighed and heaved his saddle onto the mare's back while she chewed her oats consideringly. "He is as fussy and as possessive as a wife of two score years. It is not so strange, I have known him since he was a child, but this is more. Since we began our return to the castle, he's sullen and jealous. I can barely get a sensible word from him."

Natalia's expression folded sadly. "He's in love with you."

"He fancies himself so, yes," James groused. "Though he is much too young to be anything of the sort."

"He is only two years younger than the Prince."

James glared at her. "The Prince has an old soul, at least. Alroy is—well, I daresay they are both spoiled, but Alroy is young, even for his age."

She smiled at him sadly. "You have protected him well."

"And much good it does him now," James muttered. She reached out for his hand and he took hers with a sense of resignation in his heart. "What am I to do for him, Natalia?"

"Perhaps we can turn his head," she suggested thoughtfully. "He's young, his heart is fickle. A tumble in the hay with one his own age would do him no harm."

James raised his eyebrow. "Had you someone in mind for this task?"

She shrugged as she dropped his hand. "I shall think on it. Wind guide your steed this day."

"Thank you."

"And may your sweetheart be receptive to your advances."

He scowled at her. "Begone."

She slipped away from the stables, leaving her laughter in her wake. James had survived their friendship thus far without being cowed by her teasing. He could very well endure a handful of jests about who he wished to bond with. 

By the time he had saddled his horse and allowed her to eat her fill, the sky was beginning to lighten. James led her from the stables and climbed into the saddle to trot her down through the quiet streets. The Prince had not yet arrived when he reached the gate, but the guards had been alerted to allow his passage and so the gates stood open already. James rode through and gave his mare her head so that she could chip at the grass while they waited. 

He did not wait long, and indeed, the sun was barely showing a flame-red cheek above the horizon when he heard hoofbeats behind the still, sombre walls. 

Steven rode out on a beautiful grey horse that appeared to have much the same temper as he did. 

"Your majesty!" James called out, making a bow from his seat. "What do we hunt this day? Your timekeeping, perhaps?"

The Prince laughed as he rode near. "It is very early to have spent so long sharpening your tongue already, Ser James."

"I made sure to sharpen it last night for the occasion, my lord."

Prince Steven giggled and glanced over his shoulder. They were accompanied by two servants riding ponies. One was about the prince's age, while the other was older; the real chaperone, no doubt. When James had last spent time at the castle the Prince had been far more free to roam the place and spend his time as he wished. As he neared maturity and his ascension crept closer, the Queen must have been guarding his innocence most jealously. It seemed strange, when they had known one another for so long, since childhood, that their conversations should now be spied upon. 

"In truth," Steven went on at last, kicking his horse into motion, "we hung a stag."

James couldn't help the surprise that crossed his face. By tradition, the ascending omega to the throne would hunt with their Champion on their sixteenth birthday. Historically, they always hunted a stag. Steven's voice gave no hint that he had considered the implications of his choice. 

"As you wish, your majesty," James replied, giving chase. 

They rode for close to an hour, until the sun had risen high and they had warmed through their clothing. Steven looked much fitter away from the confines of the castle walls; there was a rose in his cheeks and he bounced excitedly in his saddle every time they slowed to a trot. The servants kept their distance throughout the ride, allowing James and the Prince to converse privately. At home he must be accustomed to living under constant supervision; here, he was watched, but at least he had the freedom to let the wind carry away his words. 

They had drawn near to the forest, and James suppressed a shudder at the sense of trepidation that surged through him. He and his party had too often been ambushed in woods such as these. This close to home there was little chance of discovering enemies, particularly if they crossed the depth of the wood rather than following a road, but there was always the fear that they might disturb someone. He glanced at the Prince’s carefree expression and forced a smile in reply. In all likelihood the boy had not even considered the chance of danger today. Or perhaps he had, and that was the reason that James’s company had been requested. 

“So tell me, sire,” he said, just loud enough to carry to Prince Steven. “How do you plan to find this stag of yours?”

The Prince laughed at the mockery. "Perhaps we shall throw him a feast and wait for him to come to us."

James rolled his eyes. "It is up to me to teach you then."

Steven grinned. "Your tutelage would be most welcome."

They rode at a leisurely pace for some time, talking companionably. It did not escape James's attention that he was being auditioned by the Prince. Rarely had they been able to spend so much time together, talking freely; they had not done so in fact since they were both much younger. So while he taught the Prince methods and tricks for tracking, things he was almost certain the boy already knew, James took every opportunity to ask questions, and listened intently to the boy's answers, uncertain that they would get another chance. 

They halted at noon to eat and rest. By the way he had begun to slouch in the saddle the Prince was obviously growing weary. 

"Let us rest here awhile."

Steven frowned. "I can continue."

“And I am six years your senior,” James teased him, “and I require rest.” As he spoke, he glanced meaningfully over his shoulder at Steven’s servants; one a young boy, no more than twelve, and the other at least in her forties. 

Shrugging, Steven nevertheless looked grateful as he slipped from his horse’s back and sank down on the back of a moss covered log beside James. The servants brought them food and drink, and before they could retreat again he bade them stay and drew them both into conversation. Like the Prince, they spent much of their time behind the castle walls, and James was pleased to see that he was kind and considerate of them. 

As they talked quietly, James looked up and scanned the dense forest with an idle gaze. A flash of cautious movement caught his eye and he turned his head quickly to alert the Prince, but the boy was deep in the middle of relating a tale, his face animated with such carefree joy, that James could not bear to interrupt him. He smiled gently and turned again to watch the stag pick his way through the underbrush with delicate steps. 

They passed the rest of the afternoon in fruitless search of their quarry before turning back toward home. Their return journey was subdued, all four of them weary and quiet, but as they drew near the castle gate Steven rode closer to James.

“You did not mention the stag, Ser James.”

He looked at the boy, surprise widening his eyes. “And nor did you, my lord.”

Steven smiled. “Forgive me. It did not seem right that we catch him.”

“Not until your birthday,” James agreed. 

The look Steven turned on him outshone the lowering sun, his smile as brilliant as polished steel. “I dearly hope so, Ser James,” he said quietly.

“As do I, sire.”

 

 

Two nights later James was woken suddenly by a commotion outside. 

“My lord!” Alroy shouted, but James was already scraping together his wits and leaping from the bed to don his boots.

“My bow, quickly,” James snapped, as the boy hurried to him half-dressed, clutching his leather breastplate. James tucked a dagger in his boot and scowled at Alroy. “There’s no time for that.”

“You shan’t fight in your underthings,” Alroy said crossly, tossing the armour at him and turning back to seize up his bow and quiver. 

“Curse your tongue, child,” James snarled, but he could see the sense in the boy’s words. He threw the armour on over his thin night shift and fastened on his belt and quiver while Alroy batted at his arms to reach the buckles on his armour. He was only half done when James shook him off and reached for his bow. “Find yourself a blade and shelter,” James said abruptly as he crossed to the door. He stepped out into the balmy night to a scene of chaos. Whoever the attackers were, it seemed they had infiltrated the keep, for scores of gentlefolk were flooding the streets like water running down from the bailey. 

“Get indoors!” he shouted as loudly as he could. “Pick any door and take shelter!” His lodgings were only a short distance from the keep, and he followed the sounds of fighting that came from above. As he reached the main gate he found that the portcullis had been lowered, trapping invaders and defenders alike within the walls. 

“To me, James!” shouted a clear voice above him, and he looked up in time to see the heavy end of a knotted rope crash to the ground a short distance from his feet. He could see the burly figure of Ser Thor leaning over the battlements, urging him up with a wave of his arm. James grabbed the rope and began to scale the wall of the keep, while above him Thor hauled on the rope, raising him to the action. 

“What has happened?” James heaved, breathless from his climb. He collapsed over the top and rolled to his feet. 

Thor motioned him on and the two ran in the direction of the nearest watchtower. “Bandits, from the North I think. Betas, so we could not scent them. We know not how they gained entrance, but they did not pass through the town.”

James looked at him askance. “They had help?”

“It is possible, yes.”

James shook his head, but before he had chance for reply, a movement in the shadow below drew his eye. He raised his bow and snatched an arrow from the quiver at his hip, and a breath later the figure fell. 

“Where’s the Queen?” he snapped. “The Prince?”

“The Queen is fighting, of course,” Thor replied. He then pointed to the far side of the courtyard, and James loosed another arrow without breaking his stride. Another enemy fell.

“The Prince?” James demanded. 

Thor shook his head. “Nobody has seen him.”

There was no need of response but James’s heart filled with rage and fear, and he let loose a wordless cry and ran faster toward the watchtower. He met nobody as he hurried down the long, narrow spiral staircase, which was well, for they would most likely have met his blade, no matter they be friend or foe. In the courtyard he found the body of the first bandit he had felled, and pulled his arrow from the man’s gasping throat. Blood sprayed his bare legs and he kept on running to the doors of the keep itself. He was aware of Thor somewhere behind him, and as he passed into the building he heard a roar and a clang of metal. 

Several bodies lay inside, some still groaning. James seized on a still twitching form in an unfamiliar dark garb and bent to roll the intruder onto their back. It was a woman, with shorn hair and her visage streaked with mud and blood. There was a terrible wound in her gut; a sure death, but a slow one. 

“Who are your people?” he hissed, grabbing her firmly. “Where is the Prince?”

She grimaced. “I don’t know,” she moaned, her voice weak. “But not here. He has been gone for hours.”

James’s heart seemed to still for a moment, before beating again hard like a fist to his chest. The attack was a distraction, to keep them busy while a few captors took the Prince and ran. He drew his blade and lifted it to the woman’s throat with a hoarse cry. “Tell me where they will take him and I’ll end your suffering,” he yelled. “If not, I will increase it.”

“Don’t—know,” she gasped. “We have a camp—to the Northwest. A man came to hire us.”

James scowled at her. “Your tribe will regret crossing the Queen.” He cut the woman’s throat and stood, wiping his blade on his shift. 

“James,” Thor shouted, darkening the doorway behind him.

“Kill them quickly or drive them out,” James said, sheathing his blade. “They are hired blades only. Someone has taken Prince Steven.”

 

 

Within the hour the town was clear of bandits save the dead. There were fewer than James had expected, and he was displeased by the chaos that they had caused. If he had harboured any doubts that someone within the castle had aided the bandits, they were put to rest when he recognized the ease with which such a small number had found the Prince, abducted him, and then driven the entire town to pandemonium. James had assembled a band to track the captors. They were but a half dozen strong, all mounted and with the Queen’s three best hounds at their side. The Queen had already begged them in animated terms to retrieve her son if they could, before the exertions of the battle had overtaken her and she had been carried to her chamber.

As they were about to depart, Ser Natalia rode out and James urged his horse forward to meet her.

“Natalia—”

“I’m coming with you.”

“Nay. Natalia, you must remain—”

“You have no right to command me so,” she cried.

His face twisted sadly. “The castle is weak, the Queen needs someone with a strong arm and a cool head at her side.”

Natalia scowled at him. “So do you.”

“I will find him, Natalia,” he promised, raising his right hand to his heart in a clenched fist. 

She watched him for a long moment. “Swear it, and don’t return if you break that oath.”

James allowed himself a grim, humourless smile. “I swear it. If ever I broke such an oath, I would be dead before the next sunrise.”

He turned his horse and led the company out onto the road once more. James had sent a scout ahead to check on the camp while the rest of them made preparations, and after an hour’s ride they met her at their agreed rendezvous point by a hangman’s crossing. 

“What news, Ser Sharon?” James called in a low voice when she stepped out of the brush at their approach.

“Bandits, deserters,” she said dismissively. “Not many left. They were all sleeping or fucking. I’d wager they know nothing about the attack.”

“And no hint of a scent trail?” Thor pressed.

“Nothing but betas,” Sharon said, wrinkling her nose.

“Even if he were there, they will have hidden him well,” said Ser Maria in a level tone. “He is too worthy a prize to hide so ill. If they have any knowledge of what they’ve stolen, they’ll be halfway to the Southern slave markets.”

James bristled, his shoulders tensing, and he was aware that his pheromones must be screaming by the way the others cleared a space around him unconsciously. “Their plan was too well conceived to be so easily caught,” he said in a grudging tone. “Nevertheless, one of these pestilent rats may know something of the Prince’s captors.” He dismounted and retrieved his bow. “Sharon, Clint, with me,” he said, gesturing to Clint to follow. “Prick them if they struggle, but do not kill them yet.”

The three stole around the edge of the camp. True enough, several seemed to be involved in a lazy, amorous tangle by the fireside, but the sole lookout appeared to be drunk, while several others lay sleeping in a pile like dogs. James counted seven in total; three sleeping, three fucking and one in a stupor. He sent Sharon to stand guard over the sleepers and Clint to watch the drunken lookout while he approached the lovers. A bucket of cold, dirty water stood near the fire, and he seized it up as he approached, then tossed it over the half-naked bodies.

Two men and a woman separated with a chorus of shouting and cursing, which woke the sleepers and roused the drunkard. Their complaints cut off quickly when the camp realized that they were surrounded by three armed knights. 

“There are more of us in the trees,” James said in a calm, cold voice. “If any of you resist, you will die before you can draw a weapon.”

One of the men started up angrily, lifting his breeches as he got to his feet and stalked toward James. “What the devil—”

An arrow whistled over James’s shoulder and hit the man in the throat. The man and woman he had been entangled with both yelped, but did not move or try to help as he crashed to the ground between them. 

“Answer honestly and we will kill no-one else,” James said over the man’s ragged gasps.

“We don’t have your fucking prince,” the woman spat. “Leave us be.”

James took a step closer. “Who does?”

“We told ’em not to take the job,” said one of the men who had been sleeping. “We wanted no part of such foolishness.” He glared. “As you can see, you murdering whoresons.”

“And who offered the work?” James asked, taking no notice of the insult.

They all shrugged or looked away. “Tall man. Dark-featured,” said the woman, scowling up at James. “A little like you, m’lord.”

James snarled. “My patience is wearing thin.”

“What more can we tell you?” she cried angrily. “He wore a dark cape and a mask so we never saw his face. He offered gold and the fools took it without question.”

“And his plans?”

“Wouldn’t tell anyone who didn’t agree to it first.”

James groaned. “Very well. When was this?”

“Two days ago,” said one of the men.

“Nay,” the woman interrupted. “Three.”

“Aye,” the man said, nodding. “Three, you’re right. He approached from the South.”

James nodded to them, then he turned and strode from the camp. One by one the other knights followed, to the sounds of jeering from the bandits.

“Would it not be better to kill them?” Maria asked, sneering, and Sharon agreed.

“They proved themselves less stupid than their companions,” James said, mounting his steed. “Give them three days to move on. If they’re foolish enough to remain, you shall have your game then.”

“So we must track Steven’s captors,” Thor said unhappily.

“They will have started at the river,” Maria said. “Changed his clothes, perhaps bathed him before disguising his scent.”

James gripped the reins hard until his palms ached. “We'll spread out along the bank,” he said. “We must find where they took him.”

It was a short ride to the river. Even after they had reached it and fanned out to search, the sun had not yet risen. James knew it would have been wiser to rest until dawn proper to begin their search, but he was so knotted up inside that he could contemplate neither rest nor sustenance. His companions seemed almost as eager to begin as he, and the dogs at least were glad of the diversion. 

James took a thickly wooded section and left his horse to graze while he trailed the bank in search of something that would point them in the right direction. For a long time they searched in vain. The prince's captors had been careful, but at last one of the dogs began to bark a short way from James. He hurried toward the sound, swallowing the fear that rose in him at the thought of finding merely a corpse. 

At first he could see nothing, but then he noticed the dog scrabbling at the dirt and he dropped to the ground quickly. Sharon ran up behind him as he began to dig. 

“Please, no,” she uttered. 

James gritted his teeth and kept digging in the soft earth. His fingers brushed something woollen and he closed his eyes for a moment. If the Prince had fought his attackers, struggled too hard—he pushed away the thought and took a firm grip on the scrap of material and pulled. It came easily, and he looked down at the piece of clothing in his hands. 

“It’s a shirt,” Sharon said, breathing out heavily. “Is it his?”

James nodded and lifted it to his face to be sure. The shirt had only been buried for a few hours, and Steven’s scent still clung to it; crisp and sweet and scented with herbs. “Yes,” he said in a weak voice. “It’s his.”

“That’s good,” Sharon said, laying her hand on his shoulder. “He may still be alive. Give it to the hound and take your feet, Ser James. The Prince awaits us.”

 

 

The hounds soon found them a trail to follow, but the group they tracked had taken great pains to slip away unnoticed, and several times they lost the scent and had to split up and search for evidence of the kidnappers. The day drew on, long and wearying and tied up with frustration. By early evening they had not eaten for almost a full day and night, and were all in need of rest, the beasts especially. James reluctantly gave the order to make camp.

“We will rest for a few hours, no more,” he called out to the others as he dismounted. “Perhaps we may catch them up while they sleep.”

Ser Thor offered to take watch, but James found that he could not sleep even though he tried. He sent Thor to his bed instead, though when he roused them all several hours later, it was clear that nobody had achieved a great deal of rest. 

“I shall ride ahead,” James told them as they picked themselves up and began to eat a hurried meal. “I want to be sure of our quarry.”

They rode and searched through the night, but by dawn they seemed no closer to finding Prince Steven. The hounds were still catching hints of the trail, but it grew fainter as the time passed. Betas were tricky to scent at the best of times, and this band clearly knew how to cover themselves. The only reason they had been able to follow them at all was that the group was clearly moving in haste, the assurance of their escape making them careless. 

There was no evidence, at least, that the Prince had been harmed. On the other hand, the trail was leading steadily South, in the direction of the trading capitals and their lucrative slave markets. James felt rage boiling like hot liquid under his skin at the thought of it. Young omegas went for a high price; add to that the fact that he was a virgin, and a Northern Prince? There would be no shortage of wealthy buyers. James tightened his grip on the reins and promised himself that he would slaughter each and every one of the Prince’s kidnappers, if he had to do it with his own bare hands. 

At last they reached a winding canyon path that split into two tracks. The hounds circled, whining low. 

“Damn them,” Maria said loudly. “They split up.”

“Finally getting wise,” Sharon agreed with her. “They have made it easy for us so far.”

Thor urged his horse up beside James’s. “Do we separate?”

James eyed his companions. They were but five in number; two or three might not be enough to secure the Prince’s safety _and_ fight. He frowned and slid down from his saddle. Two of the hounds were circling one area of ground in particular. James shooed them away and crouched in the dirt. It had rained that morning, slowing their progress further, and erasing whatever he might have found here, but there was _something_. He bent his head to the ground and inhaled, choking past the thick clay scent. 

“They can smell herbs,” James said, straightening up. Suddenly, his heart felt lighter. “The sweet herbs the maids use, it doesn’t grow here.”

“Prince Steven,” Sharon said in a voice coloured with pride. 

James reached for the pouch at his belt, but he had left it behind in his hurry. “Quickly,” he said, rushing back to them. “Maria, your supplies.”

Maria was the closest they had to a physic; her knowledge of wounds and sickness far surpassed his own rudimentary awareness, and he sighed with relief when she produced from her pack a handful of the sweet herbs that the Prince’s servants always used to disguise the scent in his hair and clothing. He took a little from her and rubbed them between his palms, before holding his hands out to the hounds. They sniffed and licked at his hands, then again at the ground. James mounted his horse. 

Presently, the hounds seemed to drift toward the left hand path. Everyone exchanged a look, and James kicked his horse forward. “We go left,” he said, with far more confidence than he felt. 

 

 

The following night made their second since leaving the castle. They took several short breaks during the day that they might ride through the night, by which time the others had abandoned all attempts to draw James into conversation. They were each of them tense and tight-lipped with worry, pale from their lack of sleep and proper sustenance, but for James's part he could scarce seem to focus on anything that was said to him. 

While they rested, Ser Clint rode out alone to scout the way ahead. He had been gone barely an hour when they were woken from their uneasy sleep by frantic hoofbeats. 

James leapt up to greet him. Without dismounting, Clint tapped the bow on his back, then gestured to indicate that he'd seen half a dozen enemies and another figure half out of sight.

"The Prince?" James asked with a gesture as he spoke. 

Clint frowned and shook his head slightly. He wasn’t sure. 

“Can we take them by surprise?” Sharon asked, stepping up from behind James. 

For answer, Clint just smiled grimly. 

The bandit camp was close enough that they would do better leaving the beasts behind. They armed themselves lightly so that they could move with speed and stealth and advanced on the location that Clint had discovered. Even before they drew close James sensed that these were not of the same band that had attacked the keep. If the kidnappers were from a separate cabal then there was a chance that they might know who was behind the attack. 

James fell into step with Maria to consult with her. Their plan had been for Sharon, best at concealing herself, to steal into the camp and secure the Prince. Not one of them would dream of risking his safety by running in blindly. However, the chance at discovering the betrayer meant sparing at least one of them long enough to question. James’s hands itched for blood. He doubted his own strength of will if he were faced with a choice to spare one of the Prince’s kidnappers.

“Be at peace, Ser James,” Maria said in a low voice. “Either we will emerge victorious, or we will ensure that his majesty never reaches the slavers.”

James willed his expression to hold steady while a part of him crumpled within. They had all agreed on that point. If defeat was upon them, it was their duty to sacrifice the Prince and save him from a worse fate. James nodded and they all moved to take their positions.

Tension sang through James’s body as he readied his bow and the quiver at his waist. He had a knife in his boot; a base, animal desire in his gut longed for an excuse to use it. In the darkness he caught a glimpse of Sharon's stealthy movements. She would not breach the camp until Clint had quietly felled the lookout. James took a deep breath. 

Before any of them could move there was a loud clatter within the camp, followed by a great deal of shouting and commotion. James stood up quickly, just in time to see a small figure tear out of shelters and begin to scramble up the hill. 

Pushing out his breath slowly, James nocked an arrow to his bow and shot a clumsy pursuer in the right shoulder. 

"Get after him, James!" Thor shouted, before charging into the midst of their enemies with his weapon drawn.

Another gave pursuit of the Prince. She was gaining on him fast. James started to run toward them, skirting the boundary of the camp. He was close to the fighting, and had not gone twenty paces before Maria knocked a man sprawling at his feet. James tripped over the man's outstretched arm, landing heavily. He heard a crack and feared the worst, but return he pushed himself up all that was broken was his bow. Swearing, he cast the useless weapon aside and retrieved the knife from his boot before he regained his feet. 

James looked up to see the Prince reach the top of the ridge and pause, bewildered to turn and find such carnage beneath him. The hesitation, however, was ample time for his pursuer to catch up to him. She dove for him and the two crashed to the ground, rolling away over the top of the grassy ridge and out of sight. James ran harder. 

When he reached the top of the ridge he heard shouting from below but he could not see them. He skidded down the slippery scree and landed in the dense underbrush at the bottom. Down here, the sounds of fighting were strangely muffled, but so were the voices of the Prince and his attacker. 

James's heart beat frantically in his throat and fear crawled up his guts and fastened itself around his lungs. They might have come this far only for one lone agent to slip away into the night with her quarry. James took a step but found himself caught on a nest of brambles. Trying to pull free only seemed to entangle him more, and the fear began to seize at his throat as precious moments slipped away. He tore himself free with a great surge of effort, leaving one side of his tunic in shreds, and hurried on. 

If the two had left a trail, it was impossible to see in the darkness. James had walked in hopeless circles for several minutes, beginning to despair, when he heard a yelp of pain that was suddenly stifled. Hope and terror surged in his heart as he hurried toward the sound. 

It was slow progress through the thick underbrush, but as he drew on James could hear two sets of heavy breathing. They did not seem to be moving away from him. He adjusted his grip on the knife and crept closer.

"Filthy Northern bitch," the woman snarled somewhere ahead of him. James's blood boiled under his skin. "Lie still, you wretch."

"Let me go," Steven gasped over the sounds of struggling. "They will kill you, I will make sure of it—"

"Shut your mouth," she hissed, smacking him hard. The sound echoed across to James and he gritted his teeth and ran toward them. 

"What are you—no, no, please—you said you must keep me fresh for the slavers, please, no—"

Gripped by horror, James abandoned all hope of finding them by stealth and charged toward the voices. Steven started to shout but was quickly stifled again, but he had already told James where to find him. 

Out of the darkness suddenly, the woman leapt at him, slashing at his right side. She caught his arm and ribs with her blade, and used the momentum of her swing to throw herself upon him, tumbling them both to the ground. 

James's knife was thrown from his hand as he landed heavily. The attacker sat up and slashed him again, cutting deep into his flesh. Biting his tongue against the pain, James hit her as hard as he could in the face and she toppled back in surprise. James tried to snatch the blade from her hand, but she seized his arm and bit him hard. 

James cried out loudly and longed for a knife in hand that he might plunge it into her throat. They wrestled briefly, but James startled when he saw movement at the corner of his eye. It was the Prince. He darted in close and plunged James's knife into the woman's heart. She gasped, coughing blood onto James's face and tunic. 

James rolled away from her. He put a hand over the place that she had wounded him and found his tunic soaked. Slowly, he turned to the Prince, who stood shaking and staring down at the woman as she died.

"My liege," James said weakly. 

Steven looked up at last, animation coming into his pale, shocked face. “You came, oh mercy, you came,” he cried, stumbling into James’s arms. He threw his hands about James’s neck and hid his face there, in the scent-heavy curve of his throat. “Oh thank you, thank you.”

With the roar in his heart finally quieted, James gathered the boy against his chest and held him tightly. His chest ached powerfully, but he minded it less with the Prince crushed against his ribcage. He smelled of dirt and the faint rank, mossy smell of decaying leaves. James buried his fingers in the boy’s dirty hair and cradled his head lovingly, letting the smell make him lightheaded and warm. “You’re safe,” he murmured, caressing the boy’s back through his unfamiliar rough garb. “You’re safe now, I swear it.”

The Prince nodded, his cheek rubbing against the beard on James’s throat, and continued to cling on as though he would be lost else. James would have held him all night if he had asked it, but the boy was tired and ill, and they were several days’ ride from home.

“My liege,” he said at last in a gentle tone. “Please, let us make you comfortable. In the morning we shall start for home.”

Prince Steven sighed, his breath hot and soothing on James’s skin. As the boy pulled back and the flesh cooled, James let it reassure him; the Prince was safe, they would take him home, all would be well.

“Ser James,” Steven said, pulling away, his voice suddenly anxious. “Help! Please!”

“I am here,” James said, but his voice came out as a mumble, and without knowing why, he dropped to his knees. 

“James,” Steven cried, crouching before him. “James, please—”

 

 

When James woke again his left side was aflame with agony, but his right was weighed down and heavy. He groaned and tried to sit up, but his shoulder was immovable. 

"Wait, lie still," a soft voice murmured in his ear, and he turned his head to find a messy tangle of golden hair on his shoulder. The Prince sat up a little and met his wondering gaze. "You're injured," he said solemnly. "You should rest a little longer; the others say we must ride out at dawn."

James watched him curiously. "What are you doing here?"

Prince Steven turned his eyes away. "I—did not wish to leave you alone. Ser Maria said someone must be with you, so I offered myself." He broke off, but James could see that he had yet more to say, and a moment later he went on in a quiet voice, "I was afraid for you."

"You are too soft hearted. I've survived far worse than this," James told him, smiling weakly, though he wasn't sure it was true. He forced his head off the ground; they were tucked up in a makeshift shelter, just the two of them, although presumably his companions were within earshot. James shuddered a little, guiltily. “My lord, it is not proper for you to lie with me like this. Especially not with your ascension so close."

Steven's face coloured. "Your fellow warriors tried to tell me so too, yet here I lie. I trust you, Ser James." He smiled, crooked and a little sarcastic. "Besides, I have a host of protectors within reach. Just lie still, let me help you." 

He lay back down and pushed his face into James's neck, nosing at the sturdy tendons and seeking with his soft mouth. He tucked in behind James's ear and pressed his lips to the skin there, almost a kiss, but not quite. Steven was scenting him, trying to calm him with his own gentle scent and the press of his skin. James shivered, and Steven made a soft noise of approval. 

"There—is no need," James forced out, "for you to—debase yourself like this."

Steven grunted softly in annoyance. "Nonsense. Hush now, and rest."

Soft, the boy's fingers drifted through his matted hair, gentle lips against his neck, and a quiet murmur in his ear, soothing. Steven's scent was still much obscured by the dirt of the road and the muck his captors had smeared him with, but what James could smell of it helped to calm and set his mind at rest. It was an old trick; Alphas were notoriously flighty. It was said that nothing could settle their anxiety like the comforting scent of a familiar omega. Some pellar folk made tinctures of scent, especially if an Alpha had been widowed or was separated from their mate for a long time. 

"Hush now," Steven whispered behind his ear. He began to hum softly. It was a lullaby, and though the words were long since lost to him, the tune stirred something in the dusty crevices of James's mind. He closed his eyes and let it lull him.

James woke again in solitude some time later, though familiar voices were within earshot. He felt the ache in his chest and decided it must be the pain that had woken him. His heart was strangely melancholy, and he reasoned that it was probably a foolish aftereffect of sleeping within the Prince’s soothing presence. The wound ached badly, but James forced himself to a sitting position nevertheless, that he might better examine the wound underneath the crusted bindings. He found it looking ill and angry, the wound not yet properly closed. James had scarce begun to see about dressing it anew when he heard a scuffling sound, then the Prince appeared at the entrance to the shelter, throwing back a flap of deerskin and poking his head inside. 

“Ser James!” he cried, though his joyful expression quickly turned to annoyance. “What on earth are you doing?”

“I wanted to see,” he gasped, pressing the filthy dressings against his chest. 

The Prince tutted at him. “Very well, let me fetch Ser Maria. She has been wanting to refasten it for you in any case before we depart.”

Maria did not make much of him, which was a relief after the Prince’s tender solicitude. James did not think he could stand much more tenderness, not if he were still to make the ride home, which was several days yet. 

“Are you fit to ride?” Maria asked in a low voice as she finished tying a new bandage. 

James took a shallow breath and rolled his shoulders carefully. “I will manage.”

“The Prince will ride with you,” she said.

James looked at her askance. “I know what it is you are trying to do, the lot of you.”

Maria just looked at him with an impenetrable gaze. 

“Setting us on the same mount, letting him _sleep_ beside me? It matters not if I do not win next week's tournament.” He did not continue to say that there was no hope of that now, injured as he was. 

“He will help you heal to faster,” she said simply. “And your horse is the strongest, to carry two so far.”

“Of course,” James growled, reaching with difficulty for his shirt. “You’ve all thought of everything.”

He dressed himself as quickly as he could while his companions finished breaking down their meagre camp. James did not catch sight of Prince Steven again until they were all but ready to ride out, when Clint suddenly strode up with the boy behind him, and wordlessly hauled him up into James’s lap. The Prince looked rather put out by this treatment, but he did not complain, merely put James’s arms about his waist, squeezing his hands firmly until James reluctantly grasped one solid arm about his middle; then the boy seized up the reins and urged on James’s horse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: In the second to last scene of chapter one, there is a brief reference to a character attempting to coerce Steven into sex.**


	2. Steven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you're not following me on tumblr, or you missed it, I posted more [fanart of this fic](http://notallbees.tumblr.com/post/127946506679/more-from-my-stevebucky-au-the-season-of-honey) today :D (SFW)
> 
> **WARNINGS: chapter specific warnings in the end notes**

They had been riding for home for three days straight. Steven knew that his knights would have rested far less had it not been for him, and of course for James. That afternoon Ser Maria had pulled him aside while they paused to refresh their water vessels. 

“No matter what he says, my Lord, I beg you will stay with him until we reach the castle.”

Steven frowned at her. “Of course I shall. Why do you ask?”

She shook her head, her mouth set and unhappy. “His wound is worsening, he needs rest. You may be the only thing that will get him home.”

“Of—of course,” he stammered. “Ser James will have every aid I can provide.”

“Thank you, your majesty.”

That night, Ser James fell into an uneasy sleep almost the moment they had dismounted. The others let him lie, as peaceful as he could be, whilst they quickly assembled a camp and built a fire. When they had prepared food, they woke James and Maria fed him, while Thor and Clint put up the shelter. Although none of them would dare do a thing against his will, they all but pushed Steven inside the moment it was ready, the worry etched deeply on their brows. They had been worried for him, he knew; that had been obvious from the relief he could see and smell on them when they recovered him. But he thought, if it were possible, that they were even more worried for their companion. 

“Steve—Steven,” James moaned softly. Steven came back from where he had been crouched at the shelter’s entrance and leaned over James’s chest, careful not to put any pressure on him. 

“Ser James,” he whispered. “I am here, all is well.” He reached under the rough blanket for James’s hand, and felt relieved when James squeezed his fingers hard. 

“Steven,” James murmured, seemingly half in sleep. “Keep you safe.”

Steven laughed softly and lay down beside him. He took a moment to get comfortable on the hard ground, pressing up as close as he dared to James’s warm flesh. “You _do_ keep me safe, my lord,” he said quietly, speaking into the warm, soft curve of James’s neck. “I would be dead or worse by now, if not for you.”

James made an unhappy noise and reached for him. Steven moved willingly into his arms and kissed the rough underside of his chin where his scent was strong. It was wrong of him to enjoy James’s touch so much, so that he spend the long ride each day longing for rest and the chance to lie tangled with one another once again. His mother would not approve, but Steve reassured himself that she would not want James to die. In such circumstances, this was the only choice he could make. He closed his eyes, sure that he was exactly where he ought to be. 

 

 

During the days James became more and more withdrawn, and grew paler each hour. Steven would tell him stories and sing to him in his shy, steady voice, and do all he could to make James laugh at him. 

Steven sang at night too, soft lullabies he remembered from his childhood, some that his mother still sang to him in secret when he was unwell. He had taken to singing them to her of late. They seemed to help James when his pain made him restless, and for once Steven felt useful. 

On the fourth day they finally drew within sight of the castle. Steven had so rarely seen it from without that it made an impressive sight to his young eyes, renewing his vigour. James had slumped in the saddle behind him but straightened when Steven nudged his thigh gently.

"Almost home, Ser James," he said quietly. 

He felt James lean forward to rest his chin on Steven's shoulder and blushed at the casual touch. They would not be permitted such indelicacy once they returned home. Not unless James was to become Steven's Champion, which was impossible when he could not fight. With a sigh, Steven leaned into his touch, enjoying it while he still could. 

“I would not have made it this far if not for you,” James said softly, his breath brushing Steven’s ear. 

“It was nothing,” Steve murmured. 

“No, my Lord,” James went on in a quiet voice. “It was everything. Thank you.”

They reached the castle several hours later and Steven insisted that James be brought to the keep to have his wound cared for. They had scarce passed the doors to the great hall when Steven was beset by attendants, who gathered him up and all but carried him away from the hall.

"Wait," he said urgently, “Ser James—"

"Will be well taken care of, my lord," someone assured him.

"We must see to your own wounds," said another. "The Queen wishes to see you as soon as you are able."

Steven sighed and stopped resisting them. "Very well."

In truth, he was more than a little eager to wash the dirt of the road and his kidnappers from his body, and still more eager to see his mother once more. He longed to ask the servants for news of her but he was not sure how many knew of her weakened condition. He assumed, given the nature of gossip to spread through the castle like fire, that they all knew, but he'd rather stay ignorant if that were true. 

He was escorted up to his chambers, where his two pages helped him to undress and bathe. His skin still bore yellowing bruises where he had fought his kidnappers, and his thighs and backside were saddle sore. 

"Did they hurt you my Lord?" Erin asked him in a quiet voice as she helped him into the bath tub. 

Steven winced as he settled into the scalding water. He remembered, with a flash of terror, the way one of his kidnappers had almost had her way with him before Ser James found him, and he pushed the memory away with a shudder. "Ah—nothing serious, Erin. Do not make yourself uneasy on my part. I am home now."

"My Lord, how is Ser James?" Francis asked him gently. "Everyone is full of talk about how he saved you single-handedly."

"Those rumours spread quickly," Steven said, glancing at them. "We have scarce arrived."

The two exchanged a look, flushing. "Sorry, my Lord. We did not mean to gossip."

He shook his head. "Do not worry. In this case it is all true, yes. Ser James is a hero, and I owe him my life.”

"I should wager you fancy him more than you ever did," Francis ventured in a teasing voice. 

Steven splashed water at the boy with a fond scowl. "Perhaps you should keep such observations to yourself," he said, blushing. “Though, in this venture I admit you would win back your coin.”

Erin and Francis both laughed at him, and it felt good to laugh with them. He could forget, for a moment, that it mattered not whether Ser James took his fancy. The choice was not his to make. 

When he was bathed and dried, Erin and Francis wove herbs into his hair for him as usual and helped him into his garments. Even after the hot bath he was bruised and sore from sleeping on the ground for days, so for once he submitted to their help without the slightest complaint. 

Francis was fastening his belt for him when there was a knock at the door to his chamber. Erin ran to open it and they found Ser Natalia waiting outside. 

“Sire,” she said, inclining her head to Steven. “The Queen requests your presence, if you are quite ready.”

He nodded. “Of course. I shall come at once.”

They made a strange procession through the darkened corridors; Natalia in front, then Steven, with Erin and Francis bringing up the rear. Clearly someone had decided that he couldn’t be trusted to mind himself after what had happened, but Steven bore it as calmly as he could. It mattered little in the excitement and unease of seeing his mother. Ser Natalia led him directly to his mother’s bed chamber. That told him all he needed to know about how well she was, and his expression was grim when he entered the chamber. 

“Thank you,” he murmured to Erin and Francis in the doorway. “Please, get some rest. I shan’t need you until the morning.”

“But, Sire—”

“Ser Natalia will see me back to my room,” he said, already knowing that he would not be able to argue with her. Sure enough, she caught his eye and nodded. Steven returned the nod, then he stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. The fire was burning low, but there was still plenty of light to make out the shape of his mother sitting upright in bed. 

“Oh, Steven,” she said in a weak, tearful voice when the door closed. She held out her arms to him. “Come here, my angel.”

Steven abandoned his years of maturity and independence and ran across the room to his mother. He flung himself into her arms, tears already pricking the corners of his eyes.

“Mama,” he gasped, wrapping his arms tightly around her. 

“Shh,” she whispered, holding him close and stroking her fingers through his hair. “My beautiful boy, you’re safe now, you’re here.”

Steven found that he could not stop crying; the more he tried to gather his wits, the harder his tears would flow, his chest seizing, until all he could do was lay his head upon his mother’s shoulder and sob. She cradled him through it, singing to him gently: singing the same lullaby that he had used to ease James into sleep. 

At last, when his sobbing had subsided and he could not remember why he had even begun, the Queen stroked his hair off his forehead and kissed his temple softly. “Steven, my angel,” she said in a quiet, hoarse voice. “Are you well?”

He nodded. “In another day I shan’t even bear a mark,” he said, sitting up so he could smile crookedly at her. The Queen’s hands fell to her lap, and Steven grasped them intently. “Please, tell me of yourself. You look so weary.”

“We were all so afraid for you,” she murmured.

Steven hung his head. “I’m sorry. I should have been more careful—”

“Do not blame yourself,” she said angrily, then cast her gaze aside. “Anyway, you are home, all is well.” She stroked his hair again with a fond look and sighed. “Your saviours have told me much about your rescue, and your journey home.”

Steven dared to catch her eye, and his gut seized a little in panic when he saw that she already knew the truth. “Ser James,” he said in a halting voice. “He—they thought he might die, I had to help—”

“My child,” she said, laughing throatily. “Do you think I should rather you let one of my devoted subjects go to his death?” She lifted his hand and kissed it. “You did a noble thing.”

Flushing, Steven glanced away. “I did it for selfish reasons.”

“Love is not selfish.”

Steven jerked his gaze back to her face, stung. “What do you mean? I don’t—it is not love. It is not.”

The Queen merely raised her eyebrow at him.

"I want to see him," Steven admitted quietly, looking down at his hands. "If it were not for him—I must see him."

"No, Steven."

Steven groaned. "But—he may yet die! I can help, I—"

"I said no." The queen touched his chin and tilted his face up gently, smiling sadly at him. "I'm sorry, dear heart. But with the tournament so close—we must be careful."

He nodded, looking away. "Yes, mama."

 

 

The next few days passed in dreary agony. 

Steven was watched over almost every moment. He could barely piss without someone checking on him. Worse, he wasn't allowed to leave the keep. His mother hadn't outright forbidden him but she had strongly implied that anyone who allowed him to leave would be in serious trouble. His servants all looked so terrified if he so much as hinted at it that he hadn't the heart to try. 

His refuge came at last when he was passing through the Great Hall and found several knights gathered in close discussion. He was wary at first to approach them when they were so clearly preoccupied, but as he was trying to make up his mind, Ser Natalia looked up and caught his eye. She smiled and waved him over, a subtle gesture that he could read as he wished, without feeling that he had been summoned by her. 

Steven walked over to them, and was grateful that they didn’t stop their conversation to greet him, though each one of them met his eye and inclined their head. 

“Your majesty,” Natalia said with a warm smile. “You look very well.”

“Thank you. I am well recovered, thanks to your companions.” He was silent for a moment, but she did not say anything else, merely arched her eyebrow and waited for him to speak. “I—wondered if you had visited Ser James?”

Natalia smiled. “He is doing well, Sire. I am sure it will please him to know that you asked after his health.” She glanced around and her gaze fell upon a group of young squires at the side of the hall. “The redheaded boy is Ser James’s squire. Shall I call him over?”

“Oh, please, there is no need—” Steven stammered, but Natalia had already moved. She strode over to the group of young betas and spoke to the redheaded boy in a low voice. He nodded, though he cast a fearful glance at Steven, and followed in Natalia’s wake with the air of one on his way to his own hanging. 

“Your majesty, this is Alroy, James’s squire.”

“You serve your master most dutifully, Alroy,” Steven said awkwardly. 

The boy blushed and ducked his head. “I—I do my best, Sire.”

Natalia patted Alroy on the shoulder. "I shall leave you two to talk."

Alroy murmured a farewell but did not lift his head. Steven felt a pang of sympathy for him; they were almost of an age, and if things had been different they might perhaps have been friends. Then he reminded himself that this boy spent all of his time in Ser James's company, and he suddenly felt much less charitable toward Alroy. 

"How does your master fare?" he asked in a haughty voice that he regretted immediately. It made him sound silly and childish even to his own ears. 

"Much better now that he is home," Alroy answered after a moment. He dared a glance at Steven, then quickly lowered his gaze once more. "He sleeps for most of it, but when he wakes he speaks of the tournament."

Steven's heart quickened. "He does?"

"He regrets most bitterly that he cannot take part," Alroy said in a surly voice, his little mouth twisted in a pout. "He so longed for the chance to prove himself. To impress you, your majesty." 

Alroy spat the words as though they were ash in his mouth, and Steven stood back, surprised by his vicious tone. His own servants were informal with him, sometimes almost rude in their fondness for chastising him, but they had never dared to speak to him like this. He opened his mouth to say something in rebuke, but then he reasoned that he himself might speak so to the one that had been the cause of Ser James's injury.

"Ser James has never needed to work for my approval," Steven said in an even tone. "He has always held my admiration." 

"And you his, Sire," Alroy muttered. 

Steven frowned. "Would you tell him—"

"I'm sorry, m'lord," Alroy said, bowing. "I must return to my master." 

He was gone before Steven could say a word, something like triumph in the set of his shoulders as he ran from the hall. hall. Steven watched him go, his mouth agape. He looked around him, but nobody seemed to have noticed the way that Alroy had spoken to him, and he didn’t wish to get the boy into trouble. Meaning to head back to his chambers, Steven took a step back, but was brought up short when he stumbled into an unseen figure behind him.

“Oh, my apologies,” he said, turning quickly.

“Your majesty.” Ser Brock bowed stiffly and gave Steven a wolfish smile, all teeth and no humour. “Please, do not apologise, that was entirely my fault.”

Steven swallowed heavily. “I should return to my attendants.”

Brock reached out and grasped his wrist. “A moment, my Lord.” Startled by his touch, Steven said nothing, merely drew close again with a nod. “I fear that your instruction is neglected while Ser James lies wounded.”

“I cannot ask him to spar with me,” Steven said quickly, “he needs to rest.”

“Of course he does, my Lord,” Brock said, showing his pointed canines again. “We all wish for his swift recovery. I merely wished to offer myself as an alternative in the meantime.”

Steven raised his eyebrows. He had no particular desire to spend time with Ser Brock, but it would get him out of the keep and into the sunshine at least for an hour. He would take Francis with him; his mother could hardly complain about him wanting to continue his studies, and he would be safe in the company of one of her knights. 

“Very well,” he said, drawing himself up haughtily. Brock let go his arm. “Tomorrow?”

“As your majesty wishes,” Brock murmured, bowing his head. 

 

 

"Ser Brock," Steven said, stepping out into the courtyard the following day. 

The man stood with his back to a sunlit wall, displaying a kind of effortless rumpled ease while he slowly ate the skin off an apple. Some of the crop from further South had come early in the year thanks to the unseasonable weather. Steven envied the man his desolate charm; despite his ease, he looked as though he could slit a throat without a thought. 

"We can begin whenever you wish it, Ser Brock," Steven said lightly, turning to retrieve his sword from Francis. By the time he turned back Brock had drawn his own sword and advanced several paces. He still held the apple in his left hand, and he took a careless bite before lunging at Steven. 

Steven parried quickly, but Brock's strike was a feint, and Steven turned right into the blow. A clout from the pommel of Brock's sword sent him staggering, but he resisted the urge to touch the injured place on his shoulder. He still had his feet, but as he tried to gain ground, Brock blocked his way and tripped him with a carelessly placed foot. 

Steven tumbled to the ground with a yelp. His sword was knocked from his grasp, but he grabbed for it and rolled away from the knight's reach. When he scrambled to a crouch, he found that Brock had not pursued him, and instead stood chewing a mouthful of the apple he still held. Scowling, Steven got to his feet. He was built for defence rather than attack. James had tried to teach him how to press his advantage, but most of the drills were rusty in his mind. 

"What _has_ Ser James been teaching you?" Brock said, seemingly to himself. “Some people slay one beast, get a smile from someone with a crown, and think that makes them a knight.”

Anger flared in Steven’s gut and he dove toward Brock, gripping his sword in both hands, but the man simply knocked his blade aside. 

“You cannot press an advantage with strength if you have none,” he sneered, and slapped Steven across the backs of his thighs with the flat of his blade. 

Steven bit down a startled noise as he felt his face flush. He was already beginning to sweat; he wiped his face with the back of his wrist and tried to formulate his next advance. Brock bit another chunk from his apple and the crisp sound echoed across the courtyard. Steven licked the sweat from his upper lip. His left shoulder was starting to ache from the blow that Brock had delivered, but he could still fight at least. He paced, this time waiting for Brock to move in against him. For almost a minute they circled one another, Brock still eating the apple with slow, methodical movements. Steven tried to keep his attention fixed on Brock’s sword arm, on the tension in his hips and legs. He was struck by the contained power in the man’s body. Brock was smaller than James: slimmer, more wiry. He gave the impression of a tough root, anchored firmly to the ground. James moved much more freely, his footwork as light as a dance. 

Brock lunged toward him suddenly, taking Steven by surprise even though he had been waiting for it. Luckily Steven's instincts awoke just in time and he leapt aside, swinging his blade after Brock and clipping his ankle. 

Such a hit would have earned him praise and laughter from Ser James, and Steven was already flushed with pride when Brock turned to face him, a scowl setting his features cruelly. He spat out a curse and swung at Steven, hitting him hard in his gut and sending him crashing to his backside in the dirt. The wind was knocked from his chest along with the sword from his hand.

Ser Brock advanced and stood over him, leaning close. A bead of sweat fell from his hair and hit Steven's neck. 

"Get up," he growled. 

Hiding his wince, Steven retrieved his weapon and stood up straight. Brock was right: it did him no good to crow over a victory, whether large or small. He set his mind to focusing on the lesson. 

Brock was relentless. After the third time that he knocked Steven down effortlessly, they abandoned sparring, and Brock forced him to drill basic maneuvers over and over. It was not long before Steven had sweated through his undershirt. Seeing that he was red-faced and dripping, his hair pasted against his forehead and the back of his neck, Francis tried to interrupt to serve him water, but Brock cursed the young man until he fell back. 

“Are you in need of luxuries, your majesty?” Brock sneered, gripping Steven by the back of his neck and tunic as though he were scruffing a kitten, before pulling him up out of the dust. “Do you need watering like a lazy horse, or may we continue?”

Steven gritted his teeth. “We continue.”

They drilled until Steven was gasping, barely able to draw breath. He staggered to his feet once more, wiping the sweat from his eyes, but Brock just sneered at him and threw his sword down. 

"Well, my Lord?" he taunted, spreading his arms. "Can you fell me without my weapon?"

Steven frowned, but in his hesitation, Brock charged at him. He seized Steven's throat and shoulder and bore him to the ground, his own weight on top. 

"S—Ser—" Steven gasped. 

"You're nothing without your knights," Brock growled, in a low voice that would not carry to the servant's ears. “You had better hope the right warrior wins that tournament. I’d hate to see you humiliated by an ignoble Champion.” His breath touched Steven's neck between the unforgiving grip of his fingers, causing him to shudder. Brock’s scent was dark and heady; something animalistic and musky, like burying one's face deep into an animal skin, but the top note was like woodsmoke and cured meat. Steven found himself choking on it, and Brock finally released him. 

The knight got to his feet and turned away without another word. As soon as he was out of reach, Steven's servant ran over and helped him to his feet.

"My Lord, please drink," Francis said urgently, holding a canteen up to Steven's chin. "Please, you must be parched."

Steven accepted the vessel and drank from it greedily, half draining the container in one go. Francis took it back, and quickly took up Steven's sword. 

"Here, my Lord," he said, offering Steven his other arm. 

"I am well," Steven muttered, shaking his head at the offer. His entire body was weary and aching, and it took every scrap of his remaining concentration to make his way over to the empty stable where he would leave his armour and weapons to be cleaned. “Will you deliver a message for me?” he asked, turning to the boy. “To Ser James. Tell him—tell him I long for his swift recovery.”

Francis shuffled anxiously. “But my Lord, I should stay with you—”

“Leave me,” Steven said sharply. “Please, I am weary, let me have a few moments. Someone will be here at any moment to relieve you.”

With a doubtful look, the boy bowed and scampered off to deliver his message. Finally alone, Steven allowed himself to sigh, and his body to sag under the weight of his armour and the aftereffects of Brock’s unforgiving blows. He dreaded the thought of removing his clothing, certain that he would be black and blue beneath it. The last thing he wanted was to endure more tight-lipped sympathy from his servants. It took him a deal of effort, but he managed to remove his mail without the servant’s aid, and laid it carefully over a wooden bench. The boy had left him a clean shirt, and Steven was more than pleased at the notion of removing his damp, chafing clothes. He unfastened his belt and tunic and shrugged it off, then reached for the hem of his undershirt. 

“Well now,” drawled a low voice behind him, startling Steven badly. He tensed, but did not turn around. “You should not be all alone, your majesty, not in such dangerous times.”

Steven recognised Brock’s rough voice, and when he drew a deep breath he could smell the man’s animal scent. “My servant has merely stepped inside, he’ll return any moment.”

“Really?” Brock said in a thoughtful voice. He moved closer, stepping in so that the hairs on Steven’s neck prickled, and placed his hands on Steven’s hips. “Perhaps someone needs to discuss his duty with him, for I saw the boy running in the direction of the town.”

Suddenly dizzy, Steven tried to shape his mouth around the words of another excuse, but Brock tightened his grasp and drew him close. 

“Fear not, your majesty, I mean you no harm. I have sworn to protect you, after all.”

Steven drew a shaky breath. “Then, respectfully, my lord, I would ask that you leave me in peace.”

Brock hummed: a low, filthy noise deep in his throat that Steven could feel thrum against the back of his neck. “I am not the only person around here with eyes, my Lord,” he continued, as though Steven had not spoken. “We all see the way that mongrel James looks at you, practically knotting in his breeches each time you walk by.”

“I must ask you not to speak so,” Steven said angrily, struggling against him. Brock just held him tighter. 

“Hush now, Sire, I only came to warn you.”

Steven stiffened. “Warn me?”

“Your admirer from the gutter,” he snarled. “Do not be so eager to put all your faith in him, he has done things that most would regret."

"If you know something then you ought to speak it."

"When the time is right, Sire. It would not do to let loose my suspicions without making sure of them."

"Then keep your suspicions to yourself," Steven said impatiently, trying to wiggle out of his grasp.

Ser Brock clutched him tighter, his fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. "I’m going to win the tournament, _Sire_ ,” he said in a rough, dirty voice. He ran his hand roughly up over Steven’s chest. and pinched one of his nipples through his clothing. “And then I’m going to show you what this body was made for.” 

“Stop,” Steven gasped. He was hot and confused, half aroused and half furious. “Ser Brock—”

“I only desire a taste,” Brock muttered, putting his mouth against Steven’s nape. “I have no wish to diminish my feast, but a taste will whet my appetite.” He bit down on the side of Steven’s neck, lapping up the salt of his sweat. At the same time, his hands pushed up Steven’s undershirt and touched his bare stomach, callused fingers stroking his skin roughly.

Steven shuddered and his lips parted with a traitorous moan. He felt Brock’s laughter against the back of his neck and his insides chilled at once. “Release me,” he snapped, struggling again. “Release me _now_.”

“As you wish,” Brock muttered, backing away, his voice rich with amusement. “But remember, Sire. If I meet that filthy mongrel in the ring, I will kill him. Believe that.”

Steven did not turn to watch him go. When he was sure that he was alone, he raised a shaking hand to his neck and wiped away Brock’s saliva with his sleeve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warnings: In the final scene of chapter two Brock attempts (and mostly fails) to initiate unwanted sexual contact with Steven.**


	3. James

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :D

James had just finished arming himself for the tournament, with Alroy fussing over him like a mother hen, strapping his armour when his wound disabled him, when there was a commotion outside. Alroy darted to the tent's entrance, but before he could draw back the flap, it was swept aside and a very familiar figure entered. 

The Prince's shoulders were set in defiance, and his expression was a mixture of anxiety and anger.

"Your highness," James said, startled. He bowed quickly, teeth gritted against the flash of pain. "What are you doing here?"

Prince Steven crossed the tent quickly. He stood for a moment, considering James with a pensive gaze before he spoke. "You intend to fight."

"Of course," James replied, trying to parse the boy's tone for approval or disapproval, but it was impossible to read. "It is my duty."

"Is it duty or avarice to throw yourself on a sword?" the Prince asked angrily. "I know of your plan, and I tell you it is folly."

James flinched. "My Lord—"

"Ser Brock will kill you, he has sworn it."

"It will be an honour to die in your name," James said honestly. 

"In battle perhaps," Steven raged. "Not for this, for ceremony—"

James shook his head. "Nothing matters more."

"Yes it does," the Prince cried, and James was stunned to realize that his eyes were red and wet. "If you die in that ring, simply for the sake of animal need, part of me shall die with you." He lowered his voice. "I would rather lie with a beast tonight than watch you die for me."

Agony tore at James, a sensation that had nothing to do with his healing wound. His breath came out sharp and wet, and he shook his head sadly. "Do not ask me this."

"Please, James," the Prince pleaded, his voice breaking. "Ser James, for my sake, don't risk your life."

James hung his head. "My liege," he said softly. "My life is bound to yours. My life _is_ yours. I would give you anything but this."

Prince Steven's face hardened. “If your life is mine then so is the choice to spare it.” He turned and strode out of the tent, the leaves of the entrance falling heavily behind him to hide his departure.

James stood, stunned by his words. He had never heard the Prince speak so coldly, and had never once heard him be cruel. James straightened himself and gathered his sword. Whatever the Prince meant to do, he should be present for it. Even if he was not to fight, James would not hide away.

He stepped out into the sun and began the short walk to the arena. People began to cheer his name. The ache in his right side was agonizing, but he could still fight. He was certain of it. For his prince, he could do anything. Alroy awaited him at the edge of the arena, looking nervous and guilty though it was the prince himself that had banished him from his post outside the tent. 

“M’lord,” he said, rushing up to James. “I was going to bind your wound again—”

James waved him off. “No need. I’m well enough, as you see.”

“Be careful, m’lord,” Alroy said, his voice barely above a whisper, and James nodded before striding past him, into the arena. His eyes sought at once the dais with the Queen’s seat, but there was only one golden head on show; the Prince had not yet returned to his rightful place at her side. James approached nevertheless and made a low bow, which the Queen answered with a curious tilt of her head, perhaps considering him. His obeisance made and his name hollered to the stands by the crier, James went to join his companions at the side of the ring. 

“Ser Natalia,” he said, inclining his head to the first he met, and gripping the arm she offered. “Do you fight this day?”

She laughed loudly, glancing over her shoulder at the space where the prince should be sitting. “It would be a great honour, of course, but no. I have no desire to mount our ruler-to-be.”

“An opinion you should not be so ready to voice,” James replied quietly. 

“Perhaps,” she agreed, leading him into the mess of thickly armoured bodies. “But the Queen is a practical sort. She wants the prince to be happy and well, not lusted after by every sword-swinging fool that passes through her lands.”

James inclined his head, acquiescing her point. They talked a little longer, and James exchanged greetings and well-wishes with friends and rivals, before the crowd fell into a sudden hush. Silence was impossible, but an obedient quiet came easily, with ruffling and murmurings, like pigeons settling in the castle eaves. All heads turned to the dais, where the queen had finally been joined by Prince Steven. 

“I thank each and every one of you,” she shouted, from once-courageous lungs. The sickness in them now showed itself at the edges of her voice. "Thank you for celebrating this special occasion with my son and me,” she went on. Now that she had begun to speak, the quiet fell in earnest. “My beautiful Steven was almost lost to me these past days, and it is thanks to these brave and noble folk that I have him still.” She gestured to the arena as she spoke, to the crowd of knights of which James was a part. A ragged cheer took up in the rows of spectators. 

The Queen raised her hand. “Yet one did more than any other,” she went on. James’s stomach went cold. “One risked himself, danced along a dragon’s jaw, to bring my beloved home safe.” Her eyes searched the cluster of knights, and James felt sure that she was looking for him. “While I know that it breaks with tradition, in these exceptional circumstances I have granted the Prince’s wish that he be allowed to choose his own Champion.”

James bit the inside of his mouth so hard that he tasted blood, and the copper sent a shiver down his spine. On the dais, Prince Steven stepped forward into the sunlight, and James felt the breath seize in his chest. He thought that someone might be calling his name, but his head was filled with a roar, as of a mighty river, and he could not even hear the crowd cheer though he could witness their delight. 

“Ser James,” Prince Steven called, his voice as clear as a bell through the clamour, much changed from the hoarse pleading it had held in the tent. “For the honour and loyalty that you have shown to me and my family, I ask you to honour me once more by accepting the title of Champion.”

James’s face flushed with anticipation and shame. The Prince looked beautiful and composed, but James was certain that his face betrayed some anxiety. _He thinks I will refuse him_ , James thought, overcome with the wonder of it. _He thinks anyone could_.

With great effort, James forced himself to move. His companions parted around him, leaving a clear trail between him and the dais where the Queen and Prince stood, waiting. He halted half a dozen paces away from them and dropped to one knee, making a show of balancing his sword so that he could disguise the need to clutch at his side. If he should fall now, there would be no rising from it. 

“My Prince,” he gasped, struggling past the pain in his ribs. “I would do anything you ask of me.” He placed a slight emphasis on the word _anything_ , and sure enough he caught the way the Prince’s hopeful smile faltered for a moment. 

“Then do this,” Steven replied, in a voice not meant to carry to the crowd. 

James bowed his head. “I’m honoured to accept.”

The spectators could not hear him speak to the dirt, and all gathered there seemed to hold their breath as the Prince climbed nimbly down from the dais. He strode over to James and took his bent head gently between his hands. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, bending low to kiss the top of James’s hair.

The crowd roared so loudly that it seemed they could have flattened a copse of trees. James rose at the Prince’s bidding and, taking hold of his hand, lifted it to his mouth and kissed his knuckles. As he did so he caught the Queen’s eye and saw nothing but fond approval in her expression. 

“Come,” Steven said quietly, holding onto his hand. “There are preparations to be made.”

While the Queen was announcing that a tournament would still be held in her son’s honour, with the victor to win himself a worthy prize, Prince Steven led James back to his tent once more. If the sight and sound of the Prince himself approaching had undone Alroy once, his second appearance almost gave the boy palpitations. 

“Stay here, child,” Steven said firmly at the entrance. “If you see anyone approach—my attendants, anyone—make yourself scarce, but alert us with the noise of a lark.” He paused. “You know the sound?”

James smiled wryly. “Of course he does, my lord.”

Alroy nodded eagerly, and pulled back the tent flap for them. 

Inside, it was as cluttered and homely as James had left it, but he drew no warmth now from the familiar surroundings, the scent of battle and victory. Steven stood apart from him, his body turned away and his eyes downcast.

“You did not want this,” he said softly. “Answer me true.”

James shut his eyes for a long moment. “I wanted to earn it.”

Steven rounded on him, his face open with surprise. “But you have.” He approached, looking up at James with worry and confusion. "Ser James, it is thanks to you that I am here. You took a mortal blow to defend me, and by your incredible strength and determination you have survived it—"

"I would not have survived it without you," James said quickly.

"Then perhaps you are struggling against a fate that we have already sealed," Steven said gently. "Ser James, you are the bravest, most noble person I have ever known. I would be ever proud to call you my Champion."

“Your praise is most generous,” James said with a sad smile. 

“I do not give it lightly.”

“And I appreciate it all the more for that.”

The Prince reached out to touch him, laying his hands on the tough leather that covered James’s shoulders. His expression was calm and resigned, and it was clear that he no longer wished to pursue that same line. “Will you allow me to help you?” he asked quietly, running his fingers lightly over a stiff buckle that lay flat against James’s chest, just shy of his right underarm. 

James nodded. In the close air of the tent he could smell Prince Steven’s hair, and the warmth from his palm bled through James’s armour and outfitting. After a moment’s hesitation, the Prince grasped the buckle between his fingers and unfastened it swiftly. He did the same on the other side, his hands working with deft, clever movements, until after less than a minute he had loosened the shoulder plates of James’s armour, and he drew it off to set it carefully aside. James watched his face while he worked, enraptured by the play of concentration and brief emotion that passed over his eyes and mouth. The boy had such beautifully expressive eyebrows. James wanted to trace them with his thumbs. The tent seemed to him more stifling than before, and he couldn’t determine whether his sudden shortness of breath came from his injury or from the soft hints of scent that came to him with each movement Steven made. 

“Someone will come for you soon,” James murmured. The Prince looked up at him at last, his eyes very big and bright against his flushed cheeks. His hands rested on James’s chest, and his lips parted as they looked at one another. 

“Am I wrong to wish the rest of the day to nothing?” the Prince whispered, “that you might come to me all the sooner?”

James shuddered and reached up quickly to clasp his hands. “I—will do my best to be worthy of you,” he said in a halting voice. It was true that he doubted himself, but more than that, he felt undone by the fire he saw in Steven’s eyes, and the scent of him _wanting_.

The soft but unmistakable sound of a lark drifted in from the exterior of the tent, and James dropped his hands abruptly. “You must go.”

The Prince stepped away from him reluctantly. “Until tonight.”

James smiled at him and bowed his head. “My lord.”

 

 

By the time James and Alroy had his things squared away and he returned to his lodgings, it had become clear that the warm haze about him was more than just the lingering desires of a moment. He could still smell Steven’s skin on his fingertips, and he felt burned where Steven had touched him, even such a mere touch as it had been; his hands through the rough wool of James’s tunic, the press of their fingers twined together. 

James took great care over bathing himself, with Alroy’s help. In part, his lack of haste was the work of his injury, and of course he was anxious to be as presentable as he could for the Prince; another, darker part of him, however, was hazy and consumed with lust. 

“Are you well, m’lord?” Alroy asked cordially as he helped James to step from the bath. 

“Well enough, aye,” James replied shortly. In truth he felt overheated and irritable. His cock was heavy and swollen between his legs although he was not yet aroused. He still had the feast to sit through, and his over-eager flesh would be bothersome, both to conceal and to ignore. He moved away and began to dry himself off, trying to avoid jarring his injured ribs, or jostling his oversensitive cock. 

Alroy chased after him with a fresh towel. “Let me help,” he urged, sounding sterner even than he usually dared with his master. 

Laughing weakly, James dropped his limbs into a chair with a heavy sigh and submitted himself to his squire’s care. “Very well,” he said, sighing. 

Alroy caught his head in the towel and rubbed his hair dry first. He was brisk but thorough, working in much the same way as he did when grooming James’s mount, or polishing his armour. He worked from the top down, though his hands gentled considerably when he reached the bruised and battered portion of James’s right side. He fetched a salve to rub into the muscle, before declaring the wound as clean as could be wished for, and redressing it carefully. 

His hands fell next to James’s knees, and he slowly knelt before him. “Ser James,” he said in a low voice. 

“Yes?” James muttered wearily, sinking lower in the chair. It was as well he hadn’t fought today, for he was bone-weary even without the trial of a tournament. He closed his eyes and sighed, while Alroy rubbed his thighs gently with the towel. 

“Ser, I—”

Alroy said nothing further, though there was no mistaking his meaning when his gentle callused fingers reached further and stroked James’s cock. James jumped at the sudden pressure, the feeling of it increased tenfold thanks to the heat rising within him. Alroy, however, was not dissuaded, and he leaned over James’s knees so that he could lap at the head of his cock with his curious, pointed little tongue. The sensation was intensely erotic, and James felt his desire peak, his hormones cresting. Alroy moaned and moved in closer, shoving himself between James’s thighs so that he was cradled within them. It was several months since James had last lain with someone and he felt the need desperately. It would be so easy to let this happen, but he had no desire to plough his squire, and it would not be fair to let him believe this sort of service was ever required of him by a master. 

“Alroy,” James said gently, touching the boy’s shoulder. “Alroy, stop.”

“I want to help,” the boy insisted, looking up at him with wet lips and eyes. “The other squires, plenty of them do—”

“I said no,” James said sternly. He cupped Alroy’s head and kissed his forehead lightly, then pushed him away. “This is not a task for you.”

Alroy stumbled to his feet. “I—I’ll lay out your clothes,” he said, turning away.

James looked away also. He wanted to comfort the boy, but he had been fourteen himself not so very long ago. Too much kindness would confuse him, make him hope for another crumb. Better to keep his distance. Alroy would have to find his own strength and comfort elsewhere, and James had no doubt that he would. 

He did not waste time in dressing himself, and before long he roused Alroy from polishing some horse tack with a sulky expression, and bade him dress himself more smartly for the feast. Alroy seemed in no mood to primp and polish himself for the Prince’s favour, but James pointed out that, as the Prince’s champion, many eyes would be upon him.

“And you do not wish to shame me, do you, Alroy?”

It was a little early for them to leave, as the feast would not begin until dusk, but James found himself ravenous and so he went to speak with Ser Natalia and urge her into breaking bread with him. 

“Well, well,” she said when she saw him. “You’re as pink and plucked as a fowl for the pot.”

James ran his hand over his now sparse beard, his eyebrows drawing together with untidy stitching. “Do you think he will disapprove?” he asked, surprised by the waver in his voice. 

Natalia simply laughed at him, and reached up to tug on a strand of his hair. “Did your squire arrange your hair for you?”

“No,” he bristled. "I did it myself."

She shook her head and turned him around on the low wooden bench. “Sit still now.”

“You surprise me,” he teased, but she just shrugged, and tugged the queue of his hair a little too hard.

“I used to braid my little brother and sister’s hair for them. Now be _still_.”

Natalia stroked out the loose waves of his damp hair and ran her own comb through it, her strong arm turned to the rhythmic movements with ease. It was pleasant and soothing, and it eased a little of the anxious knot that tugged behind James’s sternum. It also lulled his raging nerves, stoppering his lustful thoughts, at least for a while. When he was pliant and still in his seat, she finally began to braid his hair, talking quietly about nothing while she did so. 

“There,” she said at last, releasing him. “Much smarter.”

“I shall have to trust your word,” he said with a wolfish smile. His belly grumbled loudly, and she laughed.

“Come,” she said, taking pity. “Let me staunch that void for you. We can’t have you fainting before your intended.”

James scowled at her. “Do not call him that, you know that’s not the way of it.”

“But how sweet for you if it were, hm?” 

“It’s not for me to say,” he muttered, looking away. 

Natalia heaved a sigh. “You may be older than him, James, but I sometimes suspect that his majesty has far more sense than you.”

 

 

James and his friends arrived early for the feast. Earlier than the Queen and Prince, at least, who would doubtless wait for the majority of their guests to be present before descending. Several people came up to James to congratulate him, but he barely heard a word that was said to him. His nerves were fraying quickly and he could think of nothing but the sun shining on the Prince's hair.

“Look,” Thor murmured at last, elbowing James sharply in the ribs. His good side, fortunately, though it still made him wince. Thor was gesturing toward the Prince, who had entered the room at last. James turned his attention fully towards the boy and, for once, he let himself stare. Prince Steven had clearly also taken great pains over his appearance this evening; his hair shone gold in the candlelight, and his clothes were beautiful and fit him like a coat of fur on an animal in winter. But it was his face that held James’s gaze; he was pink and bright-eyed, and had the look of a man who’d already drunk his fill of wine. 

“Wind guide you,” Natalia muttered in his ear, her tone soft and amused, though James scarcely had the wherewithal to hush her teasing. 

He felt as if a bolt had speared his sternum and adhered to his spine, and at the other end of the line, reeling him closer, was Steven. James threaded his way across the crowded room without haste. It was a joy just to watch. The Prince had never been so alight as he was in this moment; turning his head to hear a joke and smile, tugging at the soft neck of his collar, or pressing a cup of water to his cheek with the vain hope of cooling the heat there. 

James couldn't help but wonder how many heats the boy had sat through before, bored and frustrated. He wondered how it would feel to him, having his body's cravings satisfied for the first time. Maybe he would be quiet, used to swallowing down his desires, but James selfishly hoped that he would not be. Noisy lovers excited him, and he hoped that, despite the boy’s inexperience, James would be able to coax him into asking for what he wanted. 

Someone grabbed James’s arm, and he found himself dragged into a circle of congratulations and innuendo by his companions. He had only seen a little of the tournament himself, but they informed him that Ser Brock had won, and gladly helped himself to the promised reward of a mount from the Queen’s own stock, and a pretty young beta maid who had volunteered her company for the night. James’s distaste must have been plainly written on his face, for they shrugged and all agreed that he was better off taking a nobody as his prize than the Prince. 

At the mention of Prince Steven, James turned instinctively to search the crowd. People were being ushered to their seats as trays of food were beginning to make their way up from the kitchens. Although he turned every way, James couldn’t catch a glimpse of the pretty golden head he longed for. He was becoming frustrated, anxious, when a hand touched his arm again and he turned around into the welcome face and arms of the Prince. 

“My—my liege,” he said, making a clumsy bow. 

Steven laughed at him kindly. “My Champion,” he said, returning the gesture with far more dignity. Despite the teasing in his eyes, they were bright and eager, and James could see why there had been nothing but dirty-minded gossip since the moment he walked in. The prince looked as sultry as a satyr or a nymph; his uncharacteristically reddened mouth and lips would tempt any in the room to dalliance, but it was his scent that truly captivated.

James held his arm erect and Prince Steven took his elbow without hesitation, looking amused. It wasn’t expected of him to woo the Prince; indeed, as the elder in the relationship there was an expectation that he would lead and teach, but Steven was a beloved ruler, so there was nobody who would scorn James for his overly solicitous behaviour.

The meal seemed to pass in minutes to James, though the entire assembly was gathered for several hours. Steven spoke to him, and he was sure he must have spoken back, but he could not have recounted anything that they said to one another. Although he was hungry, James found that he had little appetite for any of the beautiful food that had been prepared, and the Prince seemed to be in a similar state. Once, he reached for a small piece of fruit and, catching Steven’s eye, held it out to him. Steven held his gaze, his eyes widening momentarily as he no doubt realized the implication. Then, they narrowed again, and he leaned in closer and wrapped his soft lips around James’s thumb and fingertip, retrieving the fruit with his tongue before pulling away and chewing slowly. James clenched his fist to stay the powerful urge within him that longed to carry the Prince upstairs that moment and forget that any other person had ever existed.

"Do I shock you?" Steven asked him quietly. 

James smirked. "That would please you, would it not?"

"Yes," he answered simply. 

Smiling in earnest, James reached for the prince's hand and brought it to his mouth, as he had done so earlier that day. This time he felt the pulse quicken in the wrist beneath his fingers, and a flush deepened on Steven's cheeks and neck when James let his mouth linger over his rough knuckles. 

"I cannot bear much more of this suspense," the Prince murmured, leaning close that his voice would be for James alone, his breath hot against James's ear. 

"You can bear a little more," James encouraged. He turned Steven's wrist over in his hands and kissed the soft, delicate pattern of veins in the place where his heartbeat echoed. 

The Prince moaned softly, only audible even to James because they were still pressed so close together. 

"Then again," James muttered, looking up into his eyes and finding them flat like the surface of a lake. He had gone somewhere behind them, lost on the anticipation of pleasure in his own mind. James wanted, madly, to clutch the Prince to his breast and kiss the hot flush into his neck until it seared there. He held back only on the awareness that the entire room would be privy to their lovemaking, and it was something that ought to be done in private. Were they courting, he would not feel bound to show such restraint, but he was a guest only in the boy’s heart and in his bed. Welcome only for the occasion of his ascension. 

At last, the Queen called for quiet and stood to address the revellers. 

“The night draws on,” she said, looking at her son. “And we must bid farewell to the child of Prince Steven, to welcome him back on the morrow as a man, and the future ruler of this place.”

The Prince stood to a chorus of cheering, and his mother embraced him warmly, though her eyes were sad. To James’s surprise, when she finally released Steven from her grasp, she turned to him instead and held out her hand. Rising quickly, he took gentle hold of her thin fingers and inclined his head over them.

“Ser James,” she admonished fondly. “This night you are Champion, my son’s equal. Let me embrace you as a son.”

He nodded, caught off guard by the unexpected request, and let himself be drawn into her arms. He held her gently, afraid of taking liberty, or of holding too hard and hurting her. She had been mighty once, but her body had declined rapidly in the two years that James had been away. 

There were several brief toasts after that, but nobody drew them out long. It was plain to all the room that Prince Steven was clinging to his sanity and sobriety by his fingernails only, the sudden heat overtaking him like a wolf running a deer to the ground. 

They were expelled from the hall at last with the cheer and chaos of a newlywed couple being toasted to their wedding bed. As they crossed to the door, James’s hand resting with proprietary desire on the Prince’s back, he caught sight of Alroy lingering at the side of the hall. The boy met his eyes for a moment, but looked quickly away again, his cheeks flushing. James forced himself to look ahead. Alroy was not his concern tonight. 

The excitement of the crowd followed them out into the passageway, where a young page waited with a torch to lead them up to their chamber. Steven’s hand found his in the darkness and, though startled momentarily, James entwined their fingers as he would with any young lover. After the rushing hours of the feast, the walk through the castle felt interminably long, and James was vividly aware of the warmth radiating from the body beside him. Through the touch of Steve’s fingers, he could feel the rippling of heat, something quite unlike anything he had felt before, even with far more contact than this. He could only imagine how it would feel to be near the Prince, were they to bond for more than just one night, when he already felt drunk and foolish from the merest touch.

At last the page led them to a warm, fire-lit chamber. “The bath is full and hot, my lords,” the young woman offered in a shy voice. “Should you wish to bathe.”

“Thank you,” Steven said. All pretence of his calm countenance had dissipated; he was breathless, his urgency bleeding over so that James could feel the boy’s emotions tugging at him. The page quickly withdrew, and James pictured the servants drawing lots, none wanting to be the one to escort the amorous couple. 

“My Prince,” James said, a moment after the heavy door was shut. “I regret that I could not give you the victory today that you deserved. I fear that my failure will tarnish your legacy—”

He got no further, for the Prince stepped suddenly close and kissed his mouth. The boy was inexpert, but not clumsy, and as their lips met, James breathed in the wonderful scent of his hair and skin, their touch at last unhindered by the gaze of others. He smelled like a cut meadow, though James knew that his scent was obscured by the herbs he wore in his clothes and woven into his hair, for the sake of modesty if nothing else. James longed to taste him without these obfuscations.

“May I—”

“Anything,” Steven gasped, interrupting him with breathless ardour.

James laughed and held his upper arms carefully. “You will be no less of a man because we take our time,” he murmured, allowing his lips to hum against Steven’s like the flutter of a moth’s wings. 

Steven’s face heated. “Then make your request.”

James leaned away and tilted his head toward the stout wooden bath tub. “Your vassals have endured a great deal of labour to provide for us. Will you allow me to bathe you?”

The Prince looked a little surprised, his nose twitching in a way that made his eyes crinkle pleasantly. “Do I—Does my scent displease you?”

James shook his head quickly. “On the contrary, my lord," he murmured, bending low to touch his lips to Steven's neck. "I want to breathe it straight from your skin, with nothing to tame or temper it.”

A soft exclamation of excitement caught in the young man’s throat, and he nodded eagerly. Without shyness, he put his hand to his belt and unfastened it, then reached to fumble with his tunic. 

“So hasty,” James teased, reaching out to aid him.

Steven looked at him with a stern and patient gaze. “I’m tired of waiting.” 

Nodding slowly, James unfastened the Prince’s tunic and slipped it over his shoulders, baring his cream-coloured undershirt. He next moved his hands to the laces at the front of the young man’s breeches, and as he did so, Steven let out a soft, desirous noise, and his hands clasped James’s elbows.

“I must see you too,” he murmured, his voice shaky with arousal. “May I? I dearly wish to.”

James bowed his head. “You shall.” He could feel Steven’s need surging upward, his own rushing to meet it, and while he worked at the laces with one hand, he cupped Steven’s jaw with the other and drew him into a long, hot kiss. The boy’s lips, usually chapped from the wind or cold, were supple and eager against James’s. His mouth parted, hot tongue questing shyly, and James split his own lips to allow Steven his exploration. The touch of their tongues together released a high pitched whine from the Prince’s throat, and a moment later James had managed to work loose the fastenings enough that he could slip his fingers into Steven’s breeches and cup his hot, hard flesh through the woollen underwear beneath. 

“Oh, oh,” Steven gasped, abandoning the kiss and gripping his arms harder. “Oh, it—it’s too much, I—”

He shuddered, his hips rocking against James’s hands, then James felt wetness through the young man’s underwear.

“Oh, my sweet one,” James murmured, pulling him close. A mix of desire and tenderness filled his chest. Steven tried to hide his face, but James kissed his forehead and temples, his eyebrows, the tip of his nose, until Steven was forced to give himself up to study. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, his face aflame. “It—must pain you,” he went on, averting his gaze. “That you must lie with someone so inexperienced.”

“The only pain I feel is that of not being near enough to you,” James promised, disregarding the injury to his side for the moment. He got down on his knees before the Prince and pulled the boy closer by his slender hips. So close to him, to his sex, James could begin to breathe Steven’s true, heady scent. He pressed his face against Steven’s underwear, inhaling the sweat and sweet-herb smell of his arousal. While Steven’s breathing became more laboured above him, James stripped him of his breeches and boots, then carefully peeled off each long stocking, leaving his limbs bare and pale in the firelight. He reached for Steven’s underwear next, and found that the young man was already untying it for him with shaking fingers. 

James divested him of it quickly, watching Steven’s cock swing in front of him as he stepped out of his underwear. It was unusual for omegas to achieve their pleasure through such means; James had rarely lain with an omega, of course, but he’d understood that the majority of their pleasure came from being mounted and knotted. Fascinated by the sight of Steven’s red, sticky cock, he reached up to touch it gently with his fingertips. Steven bucked and shuddered, his breathing harsh. James elected to be more gentle and, remembering the way the Prince’s lips had closed around his fingertips during the feast, he drew Steven closer again and wrapped his mouth around the beautiful red tip of his cock. 

Steven cried loudly and placed his hands on James’s head, half cradling him, half clinging for support. Exposed like this, he smelled strong and sweet, like fresh leavened bread with dried fruit, and the thick cream off warm milk, all of it sweetened with honey. His flesh tasted of salt, and James lapped it up hungrily, though with soft movements that urged the boy’s gentle cries.

When he was clean, James released him and looked up into the Prince’s eyes. They were almost blackened with desire, and as he lifted his own shirt with trembling hands, James saw that the flush had travelled from his face down to his belly. 

“We should hurry you into the water,” James said in the steadiest voice he could manage. “Before it cools.”

With a shaky nod, Steven stripped off his shirt and tossed it onto the floor. He started to turn away as James reclaimed his feet, and he saw that the backs of Steven’s thighs were wet with his slick. His mouth watered with the sudden, filthy desire to taste it. Steven stumbled as he reached the tub and James caught him under his arms, holding the boy against his chest.

“Careful now,” he said quietly, his mouth against Steven’s ear.

Steven huffed impatiently. “I’m more than able.”

“And I’m more than eager to spoil you.”

Laughing reluctantly, the Prince allowed himself to be tipped into the tub, gasping at the heat of the water. “They must have poured it in still boiling when they began,” he exclaimed, easing himself down into the water. He glanced up at James. “Will you not join me, Ser James?”

James smiled at him. “I enjoy the view,” he said, hoping that he was not too bold.

To his surprise and delight, the Prince ducked his head, still charmingly bashful even though James had just sucked his cock. James pulled up a small stool alongside the tub and sat, rolling up the sleeves of his tunic to keep them dry. 

“You’ll be too warm,” Steven said, watching him. “Take off your tunic.”

James smiled to himself. “My lord, if you have wish to see me similarly attired, you have only to ask it.”

“I fear another humiliation if I see you all at once,” the Prince confessed, trying to laugh at himself. 

“Come here,” James murmured, throwing his tunic aside and gesturing. Steven moved over to him and folded his arms on the edge of the tub. James stroked his hair gently. “I see nothing of humiliation about something so beautiful.” He stroked through Steven’s hair again, and the young man leaned into it and keened softly. 

“Touch me, please,” he begged. 

James let his hand trail lower, scraping his nails over Steven’s scalp and the back of his neck. He smoothed his palm down Steven’s back, marveling at the way he arched into the touch. At the base of his spine, James paused and began to trail his fingers back up again, producing a disbelieving whine from Steven.

“I shall be of age before you take me if you intend to keep teasing,” he said testily. 

James laughed softly. “I don’t mean to,” he soothed, stroking back down again. He caressed the gentle, tempting curve of Steven’s backside, seizing his breath when the boy shifted suddenly, rocking against James’s hand. The knuckle of his thumb slipped into the hot crease of his arse, and Steven made a breathless sound.

“Please,” he whispered, turning his face to James’s. “I—would have you inside me. Please, don’t tease me now.”

The words brought a lustful groan to James’s throat, and he bent to kiss the beautiful mouth before him. Steven pushed himself up as they kissed, drawing himself nearer to James’s face so that he could deepen their kiss, exploring with his tongue once more. Then he pushed back again, twisting to grind against James’s hand. James could feel the slick on his skin, some still clinging to his flesh despite the water. Steven pushed his fingers up into James’s hair, dragging at his scalp and tugging at the thin braids Natalia had woven. 

“Take me, please,” he gasped.

James moaned and stretched his arm a little further so that he could rub his fingertips over the hot, begging center of Steven’s sex. He gasped out a hoarse cry when James began to tease his hole with gentle fingertips, stroking in from his tailbone and back again. Coaxed by Steven’s eager hands, James bent to kiss him again, swallowing the soft cries of his pleasure. His mouth was slack, loosened by the touch, by the way that he couldn’t seem to catch his breath, and James took the opportunity to kiss his jaw instead, working along it softly until he reached Steven’s left ear. He took the lobe between his lips, then bit softly. 

“Let me see you,” Steven begged, tugging at his shoulders. “Let me hold you, please.”

James tried to count in his head how many times already the Prince had asked him _please_. He was viciously aroused by it: felt the need like a gnawing pain in his gut, behind his balls. The Prince, who could have commanded any man or woman in the kingdom to bend to his will. Instead, he shook in James’s arms and pleaded with kind, uncertain words, for more. 

Releasing him suddenly, James got to his feet and quickly shrugged off his clothes. He stumbled getting out of his breeches and Steven laughed at him, but his eyes were dark and hungry. Even before James had removed his underwear, Steven sat up in the tub to grab at him, pulling him closer with handfuls of his clothing. As James had done before, the young man hesitated before pressing his face against James’s groin, his berry pink cheek turned in against the soft material. 

James bit the inside of his mouth again and clenched his fists, trying desperately to keep himself still and let Steven explore him. His body would be at least somewhat familiar, though James highly doubted that Steven had ever been up close to an Alpha, not in this context. He rubbed his face against James’s cock through his underwear, moaning softly, the sounds almost curious. His own was small, even for an omega, so it was little wonder that he had found some fascination in touching James. 

As Steven touched him gently, first with his cheek and mouth through the material and then, growing bolder, slipped his hands inside, James felt the return of the painful, swollen sense of heat and fullness he had felt earlier in the evening. It tested the very limits of his patience to hold still and not return the caresses, but he was determined to follow the pace set by the Prince. 

After several long, tortuous moments, Steven started to remove James’s underwear, tugging them down over his thighs until he stood naked beside the bath, the Prince staring up at him with his captivating eyes. James stepped free of his clothing, and into the tub, where Steven moved to make space for him. 

“Come here,” James said gently once he was seated, holding out his hands. 

With a nervous smile, Steven moved closer and coiled his arms around James’s neck, tilting his face up to be kissed again. He moved into James’s lap as they exchanged light, careless presses of lips and tongue, sitting across his thighs side saddle. He was submerged from his little brown nipples downward, except for his pink knees, which poked up out of the water and seemed, to James, as eager for his mouth as the rest of the young man’s delicate skin. He laid his palm over the top of one, curling his fingertips around to the delicate clam-like softness beneath. Steven wriggled in his arms, a shuddery breath rushing past James’s ear. 

Taking his cue from James no doubt, Steven kissed his neck softly, then started to kiss and suck on his earlobe. When James moaned finally, the young man stopped and repeated the pattern again, but this time he scraped his teeth gently over James’s skin in addition to kissing. Steven was shifting slowly in his lap, pressing occasionally against his cock where it rested between his belly and Steven’s thigh. He wished, momentarily, that he had allowed Alroy to service him, merely for the fact that his discomfort now would be much lessened. James dismissed the thought quickly. Not only would it have been cruel to the boy; he would’ve felt disrespectful had he ruined this beautiful banquet by spoiling his appetite. 

“Your mind is elsewhere,” Steven murmured. 

James slid his hand along the young man’s thigh. “I barely know where I am,” James said quietly, chuckling. “I am bewitched.”

“Then I must use you as best I can whilst you are under my spell,” Steven said with a wicked smile. He’d taken up a gentle rocking movement, rhythmic and wanton, placing a subtle pressure on James’s cock each time he moved. It was maddening, and James found himself tracing the shape of Steven’s spine again with his free hand. He reached his backside and let his fingers drift lower, stroking him open once more. With a gasp, Steven buried his face against James’s neck and pushed back into the touch. His mouth was wet and open, teeth scraping James’s throat when he whimpered, and began to beg. 

“I’m ready, James, James, I’m ready, please—”

Keen to oblige him, James wrapped his other arm around the young man’s waist to draw him near, then he pressed inside him slowly with his middle finger. 

“Oh, oh _oh_ ,” Steven whined, pushing his face harder into James’s neck. 

James gritted his teeth. Steven felt hot and silken inside, like he’d pushed his finger into an unresisting mouth, but the muscles gripped at him tightly and demanded more. James stroked him carefully, his touch light and unhurried, and with his other hand he cradled the young man’s head and kissed the sweat from his temple. 

“You must tell me what you need,” James said softly, and Steven responded with a loose noise of pleasure. “Don’t be shy. I’ll give you whatever you ask for.”

“Put—put more,” Steven gasped, fingers scrabbling at his shoulder. “More, I like—I need more—”

James’s eyebrows raised, but he did as his Prince asked him, withdrawing a little so that he could press in again with two fingers. Steven had gone loose in his arms, but when James twisted his arm around and stroked over the secret nub inside him, the young man tensed up with a sharp cry. 

“Yes, yes,” he babbled, reaching up to tug at James’s hair again, his fingers wet and clinging from the water. “Yes, like that, I like—I like that, please—”

"Turn to face me," James said, nudging him gently and slipping his fingers free. 

Steven scrambled around in his lap, sloshing water over the rim of the bath tub, and pressed close to him. His knees settled either side of James's waist and his abdomen formed a little cradle for James's cock to nuzzle into. In this position James had much more flexibility to touch Steven the way he wanted, and he wasted not a moment before teasing at the boy's entrance once more with his fingertips. When Steven's mouth opened, no doubt to hasten him on, James thrust inside with his thumb and watched a hazy look descend on Steven's face. His finger joined it and he used them to spread him wide, watching a shameful blush dye the prince's cheeks. 

"Is this the way you want me?" He asked in a low voice, looking into James's eyes. 

James crooked his fingers, causing Steven to jolt and pant with pleasure. "I want to watch you first."

"To—watch me?" Steven gasped, writhing in his lap as James worked him from the inside with a slow and inexorable touch.

"To watch you," James repeated, nuzzling at his jaw. "To watch you spend yourself, fucking down on my fingers and begging for my knot."

Steven moaned loudly and obeyed at once. He dug his fingers into James's shoulders and strained back against the hand that worked him roughly. His head tipped back to bare his throat and James wanted desperately to bite him, to lay claim to his skin and muscle, to leave behind a mark in place of his touch. 

The Prince seized up suddenly, his body as tense as a bow string. James watched this time as his beautiful little cock spilled weakly over both their bellies, and even in the hot water he could feel the effusion of fresh slick that slipped between his fingers and spread into the water. 

Steven was panting against his shoulder, "Ahh, hah, hah," rag-limp in James's arms. 

"Are you well?" James whispered, kissing his cheek. 

"Quite well," Steven muttered, chuckling. "Quite undone." He took a deep breath and drew himself upright with some visible effort. "I—did not expect such, ah—solicitude."

James thought of taking offence, but he understood the meaning behind the Prince's clumsy words. He shook his hand in the water to clean it, then reached up to brush Steven's hair out of his eyes. "I hope none would call me a selfish lover."

Steven looked down, and probably would've blushed again were it possible for him to be any more pink. "I meant no offence."

"And I took none."

"Well," the Prince said in a considering tone, straightening himself once more. "Am I clean enough for you yet?"

James stroked his back lovingly. "It's not about getting you clean." 

Steven lifted his hands to James's hair once more and toyed with his braids. "So you claim to be a generous lover," he ventured. He slipped one hand down between them and curled it over the hot, straining head of James's cock. "Does your generosity extend to letting me bring you pleasure also?"

"Yes," James uttered in a startled tone. "But there is no need—"

"I'm sure that you would not deny the wishes of your Prince," Steven teased him, rising up on his knees and rocking down against James's cock. He angled his hips so that it was trapped beneath him, and James could feel the slick drag of his loose hole each time Steven rolled his hips. 

James grasped him about his waist. "I will not let you give yourself for the first time in a bathtub," he said in a strained voice.

Steven's laughter was warm and bubbled like water. He moved willingly when James dislodged him from his lap and stepped out of the water to fetch the towels that had been left to warm by the fire. When he turned back, the Prince had stood up and was watching him with darkened eyes. The firelight caused his wet skin to shine like gold. Even naked, he was majestic, and James felt his heart sing for this boy, this man, for whom he would cut off his own arm should it be asked of him. 

Without speaking, Steven raised one delicate eyebrow in expectation and, laughing, James went to him and threw a towel about his shoulders. The other he wrapped around his own hips, before meeting Steven’s upturned mouth for a brief kiss. Pulling away abruptly, he bent to sweep the lad’s feet from under him and plucked him easily from the water. Steven’s startled laughter bubbled once more in his ear. 

The bed was high and deeply cushioned with blankets and embroideries, and a set of heavy curtains to keep out the cold. The majority of it had been produced, no doubt, for the occasion of the Prince’s ascension, never slept in before this night, and James was struck by the long, gruelling hours of work that had gone into producing so much splendour for him. He placed Steven proudly in the midst of all the finery, and had barely time to catch a breath before the Prince pulled him down too, their damp skin making them stick together. 

“Take me,” Steven gasped. “I cannot wait. I will not.”

James pressed his eyes shut for a moment. “It may not be pleasant, at first,” he said in a gentle voice.

The young man just looked back at him with a stubborn expression. “I am more sturdy than I look.”

James laughed and kissed his throat. “That you did not need to tell me.” He settled himself over Steven’s body, trying to balance his weight on his arms, but the effort made a bolt of pain seize down his side and his breath caught at the sudden agony. He listed to his good side, letting the soft blankets hold him, and clenched his fist as hard as he could to fight back the pain. 

“Ser James,” the Prince murmured in an anxious voice. “My lord, forgive me, you’re injured, it was wrong of me to ask—”

“No, no,” James said through gritted teeth. He heaved in a deep, aching breath and pushed it out a little more easily as the sharp shock of pain waned. “It is a trifle. I had forgotten, that’s all.”

Steven looked at him sternly, his mouth turned unhappily. “It is more than that,” he said, though James sensed that the reproach in his voice was for himself, not for James. He rolled to his side, shrugging off his towel, and pushed James gently onto his back. “You must let me care for you now.”

“My lord—”

“No,” Steven said, bending low over his chest. He touched his forehead to James’s sternum. “Let me make obeisance this once. Humility suits a king.”

With slow, wary movements, Steven divested James of the towel and bent to kiss his stomach, then hovered his lips lightly over James’s bruised ribs. With his clever, callused fingers, he touched the uninjured side of James’s chest: gently at first, then with more ardour, pressing and squeezing at his breast, then his stomach. He brought his mouth to join his hands, and held firmly to James’s hips as he began to proceed downward. 

It was on the tip of James’s tongue to call him back, to beg him not to make himself servile, the way Alroy had tried to do for him, but he swallowed the protest. The Prince had made his wishes clear, and James knew as well as anyone that the act could be worshipful: as powerful as it was submissive. 

“You are so much bigger than me,” the Prince said in a low, lustful tone. “I never see—” He paused, shy of himself, “—only omegas, sometimes betas.”

James nodded in understanding. “It is a myth that all alphas are larger, but sometimes it holds true.”

Steven gave him a fond, amused look. “In this case certainly.” James laughed, and Steven ducked his head again, hiding his blush, and poked out his curious tongue. He nudged at the head of James’s cock several times, while James held his breath. There was pleasure, certainly, but what he felt most in that moment was a sense of anticipation. Moments later his wait was satisfied, when Steven licked along his length with a hard press of his tongue, and then bobbed his mouth over the head. 

A haze of lust seemed to hold him captive as James watched Steven take him into his mouth. His pink cheeks went taut as he sucked, then slackened and filled as he started to smile. He pulled away, turning the shy, joyful expression to James. “You taste of me,” he murmured, wonderingly. Then he reddened further at his own words. 

“It is not so strange to have tasted yourself before,” James reassured him softly, and reached up to touch Steven’s full lower lip with the pad of his thumb. “Does it please you?”

“It pleases me to taste it on your flesh,” Steven replied, watching him with a steady gaze. Still holding James’s eyes, he lowered his head again and drew the red, swollen flesh into his mouth once more. Unable to staunch himself, James made a low, broken noise of desire and watched the feeling matched on Steven’s face. With determination writ cross his brow, Steven set to pleasuring him slowly, experimenting with the curl and press of his tongue, and wrapping his fingers around the base. James’s cock swelled under his ministrations, and Steven glanced up at him after several minutes. 

“If you spend now, will you still have vigour enough for me?” he murmured, the quirk of his mouth giving him away.

James fashioned a look of mock offense. “You doubt my prowess, my liege?”

“Just your stamina,” Steven assured him, starting to laugh softly. 

James rolled his eyes and reached for him. “I would rather spend with you,” he said.

With a shudder that had nothing to do with his laughter, Steven climbed up, mindful of his injury, and spread his thighs across James’s lap once more. Thus bared, with nothing between them but air, the scent of Steven’s arousal was overwhelming. He still had the hot, savoury undertone of baking bread, but over it was the ruddy taste of dried apple, and sweetened cream. James was still afraid of hurting him, though he knew that it was unavoidable; the pain was even a part of the tradition; regardless, he had no power left to control it. Steven reached for his hand and held him, their fingers laced together, while he found James’s cock with his other hand and pressed it to his entrance. 

“Are you—prepared?” James asked with a sudden twist of anxiety. It was one thing to spend a night in the Prince’s bed as his Champion, quite another to put him in the family way. 

Steven smiled grimly. “My page helped me to make a pessary. Do not worry.”

James nodded and stroked the young man’s chest, distracted for a moment by the thought of him preparing himself, touching himself perhaps, before he inserted the pessary of herbs. 

Steven took James’s hand and raised it to his lips, turning it to kiss the soft warm cup of his palm. “We have both earned this,” he whispered, holding James’s gaze firm with his own, before he slowly began to push down. 

“Oh, mercy,” James gasped as he was enveloped in the Prince’s hot, tight flesh. Steven was panting with the effort, and James clutched at the young man’s thighs, nails digging into his skin. “Does it hurt?”

For answer, the Prince simply shook his head, but his eyes were shut tight and he was biting his lower lip with determination. James stroked his thighs, hoping to provide comfort, and after several moments the tension seemed to ease from Steven’s face and taut body. He settled himself fully into James’s lap, letting out a sigh as he did so, and he opened his eyes and looked into James’s face. 

“That was—not so bad as I had feared,” he said with a small, slightly pained smile. 

“I promise it can be much better,” James murmured, moving his touch to Steven’s belly. “If you wish, I shall endeavour to make it so.”

Steven grinned. “One thing at a time, brave knight.” He shifted a little, and it must have nudged the right place inside him because he tipped his head back, mouth dropping open with a flush of need that sent his muscles springing tight again. He gripped tight around James’s cock too, almost unbearably so. It was the most glorious thing James had ever felt, and he closed his eyes for fear of being overwhelmed by the sensation. When he opened his eyes and found Steven’s face stretched in ecstasy above him, his own pleasure swelled. 

The suspicion that had raised in him whilst they were in the bath reared its head once more, and James determined to ask the young man just how much touch his supposedly virginal body had experienced before this night. For the moment, however, his mind was more willingly engaged in the sensation of lovemaking. His wound still ached dearly, but it faded by degrees as Steven began to move against him. His body tensed, and James touched his hips gently. 

"Don't be hasty," he said in a low voice. "We have the night. I will gladly keep you warm until dawn."

Steven frowned softly, but did not reply. Even so, he slowed his movements a little, and James couldn't help a groan at the hot, dragging sensation. 

"Are you—are you well?" he asked breathlessly, moving his hands up Steven's chest to cup his face. "I can feel—your sensation."

Steven nodded and gasped, "And I yours."

It was little wonder that they had become so quickly attuned, given the ceremony and the coincidence of them both having a heat flare at the same time. But it was the first time James had felt such a thing so strongly, and he was utterly overwhelmed. He was aware of Steven's heartbeat as if a second organ beat in his own chest, and he could feel pain and pleasure at the edges of his consciousness that were not his own. Steven's pleasure felt richer, thick and golden, while his own was burning heat as though he lay with a fever upon him. 

Without thinking, James bucked his hips into the enticing warmth, and Steven cried out noisily, his fingers making claws against James's chest. James felt the spike of delirious pleasure and pain that went through Steven's body, and he moaned in response to it. 

"I'm sorry," he whispered, stroking Steven's cheeks with his thumbs. "I will lie still if you wish it."

Steven looked at him with hunger in his eyes. He dropped forward and seized James's mouth in a passionate kiss, moaning when James moved his hands up into Steven's hair to hold him close. Steven took his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down carefully, and James gasped and started slowly to rock his hips. 

"Oh," Steven moaned softly against his lips, "Oh _yes_." He started to move his hips in time, and to kiss James's face, first his mouth and then his cheek, breathing sweet and heavy against James's flushed skin as he did so. "James," he whispered shyly, with his face against James's left ear. "Oh, James—"

There was something possessive in the way that Steven said his name. It made James's heart seem to swell within his chest and a flush of unfamiliar pleasure whispered through his veins—he couldn't be sure whether it was his own or not. He wanted so much. First he wanted to turn the young man face down and have his way, to fill him up with his seed and listen to him cry and beg for more. But second, and just as strong, he wished to gather Steven into his arms, to wrap him in blankets and kiss every sweet inch of his skin and never, ever let him go. And both he could do, if he wished it, but only for one night. 

Steven took gentle hold of his chin and turned him so that their eyes met. "Something troubles you?"

"Nay," James murmured, placing his arms about the young man's waist. Steven arched in his grasp, and James kissed his throat and breast, and ran a hand up and down his spine. “Just—a little stunned. You have a habit of surprising me.”

“I should rather that than be dull,” Steven said in a breathless voice, moving against him slowly. He found James’s right hand with his left and lifted it to his lips. He met James’s fingers with a lingering press of his lips, and then he squeezed the hand tight in his own. “Now come, Ser James, let me bring you such pleasure as you have given me this night.”

James nodded, struck dumb by the Prince’s gentle behaviour. It was almost like courtship, and he wished, with a sudden bitterness that startled him, that they had been allowed such a luxury. He imagined meeting the Prince in the gardens after dark; kissing him on a stone bench, or dancing with him at a banquet. 

Steven nuzzled in against his cheek with a soft longing sound, and as they kissed again with lazy movements, James rocked his hips steadily. After the long hours of anticipation, and with shreds of Steven’s pleasure humming through him, it would not be long before his own pleasure overtook him. Already he could feel his knot beginning to swell. 

"Steven," he said gently. "I—I cannot hold much longer for relief."

"Then spend within me," he moaned. 

James laughed awkwardly. "I would, my lord, but then we shall be tied, and I would not be able to pleasure you more until it is ended."

Steven shuddered pleasantly and looked at him with wide eyes. "You—wish to do more?"

"Unless you would rather—"

Steven kissed him suddenly, his breath coming fast and urgent. "I do not want to stop."

With another huff of laughter, James patted his thigh. "Then you had better move, before my body chooses for us."

With a frown, Steven slid off, his expression turning to a grimace when James’s cock slipped free of him. “It felt better going in than coming out,” he said, sitting gingerly on his heels. 

James laughed softly and beckoned him closer once more. Steven came into his arms without hesitation, and James buried his fingers in the young man’s hair while they kissed. 

“Tell me,” Steven murmured, “how should I do this for you?”

The temptation to tease him was too strong, and James’s curiosity would not be subdued. “I wish you to decide,” he said, watching the Prince’s face carefully. 

Steven looked up at him, meeting the challenge in his eyes, and smirked. “Very well.”

He rolled to James’s good side and lowered his head to kiss his stomach, then his hip. This time, his shyness was much lessened when he reached for James’s cock and wrapped his fingers around it. James keened and arched into his touch, and Steven wrapped his other hand around the base, cupping his slightly swollen knot. As he watched, his mouth open in dismayed arousal, Steven bent and circled the end of James’s cock with his lips. He sucked gently, before slipping down further than he had before, taking the hot weight onto his tongue. 

James was lost. He rested his hand gently on the top of Steven’s head so that he could feel his movements, but he didn’t try to push or guide him. Steven was no expert, but he moved eagerly, as if he’d done this a dozen times, or at least had dreamed of doing so. And as he sucked and licked, and stroked James’s knot with his fingers and palm, he moaned deep in his throat, as if it was the greatest pleasure in life to do so. 

Despite the build up, James’s quickening still took him by surprise. He tried to utter a warning but Steven didn’t hear or didn’t listen, and James tightened his fingers in the young man’s hair and tugged him up just in time to avoid spilling into his mouth. Steven yelped at the sudden motion, but when James’s seed spattered his face; streaking his left cheek, his chin and his throat, he let out a startled moan again and bent to lick the spending from James’s skin. 

“Oh, my—my lord,” James gasped, still gripping his hair tight. “Steven, Steven my sweet one—”

“I like that,” Steven said breathlessly, looking up at him with wet eyes and lips. He shuffled up to suck James’s lower lip between his, releasing it with a pop. “Call me that again,” he murmured. 

James cupped his face and kissed the stickiness from his mouth. “Sweet one,” he whispered, kissing him again. “Like honey on my tongue.”

Steven laughed. “I think you spend much time plying your tongue for foolish omegas.”

“There are many things I like to do with my tongue,” James retorted. “Perhaps if luck favours you this night, I shall show you.”

His words had the effect he had hoped for, and Steven flushed intensely. "Oh please," he said quickly. "Won't you show me now?"

James grinned and lay back, folding his hands behind his head. "Would you care to bargain with me?"

"Your meaning?"

"I hope I know you well enough, my sweet, that I know when you are dishonest."

Steven looked surprised. "Dishonest? How?"

Sitting up partway, James reached out and traced his fingertip slowly down the middle of Steven's chest. "I may be the first to lie with you," he said, watching the young man's face carefully—he did not want to push too far. "But someone has touched you in this way before, have they not?"

"Oh, that," Steven said, looking away from him, whether in coyness or shame he couldn't tell. "Childish games, really. Curiosity, that is all."

James leaned a little closer and let his hand dip lower, between Steven's legs. "Will you tell me? My bargain is that, in return, I shall do for you whatever you describe to me."

Steven's gaze snapped to meet James's at once, and he licked his lips unconsciously. "You—you won't think less of me?"

"Curiosity is a valuable trait," he said gently, with an encouraging smile. "And it would bring me pleasure to hear you talk of it, if you wish."

There was a brief pause, then Steven nodded and made himself more comfortable. "There was another boy," he began in halting tones. "We were of an age and had similar interests, so we became good friends." Steven glanced at him, perhaps waiting to see if James would tire of the tale. He said nothing, and after a few self conscious moments, the Prince went on. "He was noble born, and an omega, so it was never thought strange that we should spend long hours playing together, or even for us to sleep in the same bed during visits." 

James's eyes widened a little and his breath quickened in anticipation, but he held his tongue so that Steven could speak. As a boy he had once happened to stumble across two omegas, a boy and a girl, dallying in a field. He had not seen much, nor been quite old enough to appreciate what he had seen at the time, but the memory had persisted as one that that never failed to make his blood quicken. 

"I—did not love him, nothing so sincere," Steven said thoughtfully. "But we were disobedient and easily bored. We soon found that there was endless entertainment in learning each other's bodies, and our own, of course."

He looked up at James, a soft flush on his face and an expectant tilt to his head. James pulled him closer, inviting Steven to settle under his arm, but offered no more. 

"Won't you touch me?" Steven asked.

"Once you tell me how your young lover would touch you," he rejoined. 

Steven sighed, but he was smiling. "Mostly we would kiss," he said, tipping his chin invitingly. 

Keen to oblige him, James pressed a soft, chaste kiss to his lips and drew back. "Like that?"

"Sometimes," he said, smirking. "Though you are much more practised than we were."

James laughed and caressed his brow gently, then brushed aside his damp hair. He kissed Steven again, lingering a little longer this time. “I cannot blame him for wanting to kiss you,” he murmured. “You have the most beautiful mouth.” He kissed it once more. “As soft and lush as wet rose petals.”

At his words, Steven flushed the colour of a dark rose himself and cleared his throat. “We did more, too," he said boldly. Again, James waited quietly for him to go on speaking. Steven shifted himself to get comfortable, moving closer to James as he did so, and it occurred to James that Steven was probably leaking slick all over the blankets. He wondered if it made him self-conscious. “He liked for me to stroke his cock,” Steven said suddenly, and reached out to stroke James’s softening cock with one finger. James jumped, startled by the unexpected contact. "He liked—we used to, ah, to bring one another off that way."

“And you?” James asked in a strained voice. “Tell me what _you_ liked.”

Steven smiled: a shy, private smile that made James’s heart beat faster. “I liked him to put his hand inside me.”

James grabbed Steven’s leg, the one farthest from him, and pulled it across his thighs so that he could slide his hand easily around the boy’s backside. “Would you like me to do that?”

“Yes,” the Prince said without guile, looking up at him with wide eyes. 

For a few brief moments, James circled the rim of Steven’s entrance with his fingertips, but he didn’t wish to tease, and presently he pressed inside with two fingers. Steven sighed contentedly, relaxing against him. 

"Oh, it—I couldn't have imagined how much better it would be like this," Steven said in a loose, dreamy voice. 

James smiled sadly. "It's the heat, because we're both—"

"No," Steven said suddenly, cutting across him. "It is you."

It was James's turn to flush under the attention, and Steven looked delighted when he realised that he had made his Champion blush. He pushed back against James’s fingers with a groan, and raised an eyebrow at him in expectation. The audacity of it made James laugh heartily, and while the Prince was still giggling at his amusement, James pushed into him with a third finger and felt Steven’s chest heave against his own as he went breathless and moaned loudly. 

“Such activity becomes you,” James teased, crooking his fingers so that Steven squirmed against him. “Perhaps I could bribe you to work harder at your training.”

“Bribe me with your cock?” Steven gasped, still managing to sound sarcastic. 

James laughed. “If that is what it takes." He drew back and then stroked slow and deliberate over Steven’s bud of pleasure just to watch him shudder. 

The Prince did shudder, and cried out softly, but he also snuck his arm around James’s neck and pressed in close to murmur against his mouth. “More,” he said, lips moving damply against James’s cheek. “Won’t you give me more?”

“More?” James said, looking at him with some surprise. 

Steven smirked. “I spoke true when I said it was his _hand_ I liked inside me.”

James sputtered, choking on his next breath, and stared at the young man with eyes wide. Steven stared back at him, and he seemed almost to be challenging James to say something against him.

“Sorry,” James said quickly, finding a smile. “I’m not displeased, merely surprised.” He grinned and Steven smiled back in relief. “Still,” James went on, teasing now. “Preserve my dignity, let me believe that my hand is a little larger than that of an omega lad?”

“Perhaps a little,” Steven allowed. 

A sudden thought struck James, and he could not resist the temptation. “So you are almost an expert then,” he said, still in a gentle mocking voice. “All that talk of inexperience was a mere play at modesty.”

“No no,” Steven said quickly, looking stricken. "You're the first I've ever—" He cut himself off suddenly and was silent for a moment before he spoke again in a sullen voice. "Oh. You jest with me."

James chuckled, which only deepened the prince's frown. "Forgive me," he said, pulling Steven to him. "Please, tell me more, I cannot tell you how this delights me to hear it."

"To laugh at my foolishness," he muttered, but he arched against James's touch anyway, and his eyes fell shut. "Mm, I'll just not tell you any more."

"What about if I were to tell you stories in return?" James said softly in his ear, and felt Steven shiver in response. "You should see a dormitory full of young alphas. They have their hands down each other's breeches every night."

Steven shuddered in his arms, but he was not undone just yet. He looked up at James, his expression sultry and sly. "Just their hands?" he murmured. 

James grinned and rewarded him with a kiss and a sharp twist of his hand that made him yelp. "Where do you think I learned to suck cock? I would wager that was not your first time either?" 

"My—friend," he said hesitantly. "He wished to try, although he did not like it."

"And did he put his mouth anywhere else?" James urged, fucking his fingers in rhythmically.

"Ahh, yes, yes," Steven gasped. 

James stroked him mercilessly. "Here?"

Steven nodded, his eyes shut tightly and his fingers digging into James's arms. "Y—yes!" James pulled his fingers free without warning. Steven moaned in protest, and looked up at him with wild eyes. "What—why are you stopping?"

"I said I would do whatever you described to me," James said simply, carefully nudging the boy to turn over. "And you said that you had taken another boy's tongue inside you before."

"James!" Steven protested, looking stunned and dazed with arousal. He rolled, unresisting, onto his belly, and made a faint noise of desire when James knelt behind him and lifted his hips. 

His first gentle lick, from Steven's tailbone up to the centre of his back, assured James that he had guessed right, and this was a new experience to the Prince. It would not be unusual even had he lain with a dozen alphas. The act was considered unclean and submissive among most, and James did not know many who would deign to lower themselves to perform it. James thought that any who decried it were fools. 

Steven's reaction was more than he could have hoped for. He clutched tight at the blankets and arched his head back with a soft cry, startled and hungry for more. 

"Oh, James," he gasped. "More, James, yes—"

His laughter skipped over Steven's skin, and James watched him shiver before bending to press kisses over his slim, pale backside. He teased for a minute or two, feeling Steven's hips quivering between his hands, before he finally let the young man have relief. James buried his face into Steven's soft flesh and tongued his entrance with a light, probing touch. 

Steven made a high, incomprehensible noise, shuddering and whimpering under the touch. He tasted both salty and sweet; stronger in the fold of his thigh or the crease beneath his tailbone, and wetter, more lush, the closer James drew his mouth to his entrance. James lapped up the slick from Steven's soft inner thighs, then returned his attentions to the loose, wet hole and ran his tongue over it roughly. James had done this on but a handful of occasions, although his own inexperience was meaningless when Steven writhed and moaned at his every touch. 

When James had licked him clean of slick, and Steven's hips were beginning to mark from being held so tight, James plunged his tongue deep into the young man's wet hole in place of his cock. He moved one hand up and pushed two fingers in deep, straining to hear to the breathless cries that came from Steven's throat. 

Slick trickled out between his fingers and coated his tongue. Although he was not yet erect, James was hot and taut with arousal; it burned down his spine and wallowed in his gut. Steven was shaking and injured noises spilled from him like water from a pitcher. James felt underneath him for his cock which was hard and hot once more, but Steven whimpered and pushed his hand away. 

"Please, no," he gasped. "It's too much, too much—"'

James clasped his hip once more instead. His fingers easily found hold, as though he had held the Prince in his arms a hundred times before. He pulled back from his eager work to catch his breath and wipe the mess from his chin, but he had scarce filled his lungs before Steven pushed back his hips with a noisy, pleading whine. 

James laughed and kissed the small of his back. "Tell me the truth or I'll go no further."

"What—what do you mean?" Steven hissed. "What truth?"

Still chuckling, James stretched his fingers inside of Steven to spread him wide and watched the slick drip onto the blankets and down his thighs. Pursing his lips, he blew gently around the edge of his hole, watching the muscles twitch and quiver. Steven moaned loudly. 

"Oh, mercy, mercy," he cried. "No, we never did this, he never put his mouth there, please have mercy—"

"Mercy?" James said mildly, and ran his tongue around the wet, grasping rim of Steven's entrance. "Is not this pleasant? Did you not beg me for this?"

Steven groaned. "Yes yes," he murmured, twisting the blankets between his hands. "Yes yes _yes_."

"Sweet boy," James said fondly, and paused to suck gently at his hole, filling his mouth with the bittersweet taste of him. 

"A little more," Steven said desperately, "a little more, I beg you—"

James reached inside him with three fingers and began to stroke him to completion from within. Steven sobbed, burying his face in the blankets and rocking his hips slowly while he pushed into James's caress. His cries started to build, louder and more desperate until he tensed suddenly. James held him while he shook and sobbed, and then eased him gently down to the bed.

James lay down beside him and rested his hand on Steven's lower back. The Prince had his eyes shut tight and he was breathing raggedly, lost in himself, in his own body. James stroked his back slowly, following the notches of his spine with his fingertips. His other hand he held tight, curled beneath his cheek, still shiny wet with slick. 

Steven turned his head with a soft curse and opened his eyes. It took him a moment to focus his gaze on James's face, but he smiled when he did. "My Champion," he murmured. 

James laughed quietly. He moved his hand up and ran it through Steven's damp hair, brushing it back from his face. "How do you feel?"

"I cannot put it into words." Steven smiled at him, wide and bright. "I want to do this with you every night."

"Every night?" James teased, laughing softly. "You would soon tire of me."

"I doubt that," Steven whispered as he moved closer. He nuzzled their mouths together in an approximation of a kiss, humming low and contented. James parted his lips and Steven darted his tongue between them, deepening it to a warm, languorous kiss. 

They lay for a long time, exchanging lazy kisses and touching one another with slow, exploratory fingers. 

Eventually James came to with the realization that he had been dozing. Steven was stroking his prick slowly but firmly, and when he saw that James was watching, he bent and drew it into his mouth, his eyes firmly fixed on James's face. 

James exhaled heavily. "Steven," he whispered, savouring the name on his tongue. "Steven—"

Steven pulled off with a smile. "Please do not make sport of me if I tell you this," he said softly. "I like the way you say my name."

James caressed his cheek. "Where should I find sport in that?"

"Nobody ever calls me by my name," Steven went on shyly, looking away. "It is always 'your majesty', or 'my lord'." 

"Well, you _are_ our Prince," James said simply. 

Steven frowned. "Tonight I wish to be Steven. Just Steven." 

James reached for him. "Steven then," he said quietly. "Come hither."

Moving carefully, Steven curled himself with his back to James's chest. James wrapped his arms around the young man's chest and held him tight. 

They lay together for a short while enjoying the simple comfort of one another's skin, but they were both still hazy with heat, and it was not long before they were rubbing against one another again and panting softly. Steven reached between them and pushed James inside him. 

"Stay this time," Steven moaned, over the sound of James catching a sharp breath as his cock slid into the hot, wet bliss. "Knot with me."

"Whatever you wish," James whispered, clutching the young man to his chest and laying kisses along his beautiful slender neck. 

Their mating this time was passionate and unhurried. They moved slowly and kissed for a long time, and every time one of them came close to their quickening, they would slow down and kiss and start all over again. 

They both fell asleep almost the moment that James had finally spent, locked together and curled tightly in one another's embrace.


	4. Steven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :(

Steven woke to find himself wrapped loosely in James's arms. Slow, even breaths heated the back of his neck, and James's warm, heavy scent surrounded him. The bed linen smelled of their mingled scents, and Steven wanted never to leave it. The fire had burned low, leaving the room almost in darkness. Steven rolled over carefully and admired James's sleeping countenance. 

His eyes were a little dark and sunken still from his recovery, but Steven thought him the most beautiful alpha that he had ever seen. He raised his hand to trace James's mouth with his thumb, and laughed in surprise when James caught it between his lips and opened his eyes with a smile. It felt miraculous to watch his face shift from sleep to waking, to see his shadowed eyes grow alight to see Steven lying close to him. 

"I'm sorry to have woken you," Steve murmured, leaning close to kiss James's mouth. 

"Do not apologise," James growled, low and possessive, drawing Steven into his arms again to kiss him more deeply. "I am not yet finished with you."

Steven made a soft, embarrassingly high pitched noise when James began to nip at the side of his neck, slowly working his way down Steven's throat and then his chest. His heat had calmed a little after their exertions earlier that night, but now he began to feel feverish once more. The breathless, needsome litany in his head and heart chanted for James, James, always James. 

He took Steven's cock into his mouth and sucked it gently, apparently in no hurry. Steven let his hands fall to the pillows either side of his head. James made him feel helpless in a way that made him long for more. 

"Wait, wait," he murmured, undulating his hips with lazy movements. "Mm, wait."

James raised his head, and his voice was tinged with concern. "What is it? Should I stop?"

Steven grinned at the carved roof of the bed. "Never stop," he said in a dazed, stupid voice. "I want you to fuck me."

James groaned, exhaling the sound against Steven's thigh. "It would be my _pleasure_ , my sweet." He crawled up so that he knelt between Steven's legs. Steven shuffled closer, embarrassed and excited by the fresh rush of wetness that came forth when James grabbed hold of his thighs and hauled Steven’s hips up onto his lap. Slowly, his beautiful brow drawn together in quiet focus, James breached him once more. 

Steven dug his fingers into the blankets either side of his head and moaned long and low as he was filled. "Oh, James," he gasped, tossing his head back and baring his throat. "Please, more—"

James started to drive into him with slow, heavy strokes, gripping Steven's hips tightly. Kneeling over him, James looked like a giant, his strong arms and shoulders lit golden by the dying fire. Steven could not bear to think of the hours slipping away from them, the time that would take James away from him once more, when he had waited so long for it. He was a little young to take a consort; even were he not, he was not sure that he could afford to be so selfish and frivolous while his mother was so ill. 

Steven passed his hand over his face, trying to push away the unhappy thoughts. 

"Steven," James said gently, his movements halting. "My Lord, are you well?" 

Not trusting in his voice, Steven simply nodded. Looking up, he found that James's expression was filled with concern, and he reached for one of the strong hands at his waist. James interlaced their fingers and leaned toward him, still buried deep inside of Steven as he bore down and pressed him into the bed. 

"What is it, my sweet?" James whispered, stroking his fingers through Steven's hair. He placed hot, gentle kisses on his cheeks and neck, until Steven was quite caught up in the sensation of him again, and his worrisome thoughts had faded. 

"Nothing," Steven murmured, pulling him closer. "It is nothing." He began to rock his hips into James, urging him in deeper, and tilted his head for a long, languorous kiss. 

It took neither of them very long to finish, but James rolled them over before it happened so that Steven might lie upon his breast while they lay knotted together once more. 

"Steven," James asked at length, his voice low and very quiet, "might I make a request?"

"Anything," Steven murmured, nuzzling James's shoulder with his cheek. 

James kissed the top of his head and laughed self consciously. "Well then, I wondered if perhaps you might sing to me."

Surprised, Steven lifted his head. He almost expected to find that James was laughing at him, but there was nothing to be seen, no trace of laughter in his countenance. "Whatever you wish," he said in a shy, solemn voice. 

Lowering his head once more so that his ear rested over James's heart, Steven began to sing in a low voice. It was a slow, sad love song that his mother often used to sing, and that Steven was immeasurably fond of. Once he'd begun he realised suddenly that he couldn't remember all the words, or perhaps had never known them, so when he reached a line and found the words missing from his mind, he hummed the melody instead. 

James touched the back of his neck and slowly ran his hand down Steven's spine. He whispered something under his breath that Steven didn't catch over the sound of his own voice, and pressed a kiss to the top of Steven's head. 

“Steven?” James said quietly, when he’d stopped singing.

“Mm?”

“I am honoured that you chose me.”

Steven frowned and raised his head once more to look at James. “I suppose it must be a great honour to be chosen by the heir apparent.”

James’s expression faltered, his mouth opening again soundlessly. “No,” he said, his eyes grave and earnest. “No, Steven. It is because I admire you more than anyone I have ever known.”

“Oh,” Steven muttered, turning pink and hiding his eyes. “But I have never done anything worthy of admiration.”

James leaned up and nudged his cheek with a smiling mouth, then nuzzled in to find Steven’s and kissed him sweetly. “You do not need to earn my respect,” he said quietly, his mouth against Steven’s. “You have it already. You have a noble soul, beloved.”

Steven drew back to look at him with widened eyes. Even James looked a little surprised at himself. 

“I—my apologies,” James said quickly. “I did not mean—that is, I should not presume to make such claims on you—”

Steven kissed him into silence, the two of them sharing a tense, eager press of tongue and lips. “I have wanted you since I knew what it was to want,” he whispered at last. 

James’s eyes softened and he smiled dreamily. “And I you.” He sighed and reached up to brush Steven’s hair from his face, and the resignation in James’s eyes made his gut seize unhappily. “But you know that this cannot be.”

“I want it,” Steven said stubbornly.

“You cannot.”

“When I rule—”

“When you rule,” James interrupted in a calm voice, “you may take as many lovers as you wish, but until then—”

“I want only you.”

James cupped his face and smiled sadly. “And I will wait.”

With a helpless cry, Steven threw himself at James, barely heeding the necessity to be wary of his injury, and kissed him with all the wretched longing in his heart. James met his passion and returned it tenfold, desperation making them cling to one another all the more intently. As they kissed and roamed their hands possessively over one another’s skin, Steven felt James begin to swell within him once more and the sensation stole the breath from his throat. Even when overcome by his own early heats before, Steven had never taken his own pleasure so often and in so short a time. He sat up straight, driving James deeper inside him and watching the pleasure flush his lovely, handsome face. 

“I do not—ah—think this will have run its course by morning,” Steven said breathlessly. 

James groaned and grasped at his hips, dragging him down hard into his next thrust. “Then—I shall stay as long as you need me.”

Their lovemaking was fierce but unhurried, and Steven had no notion of how long it had continued before there was a soft knock at the chamber door. Neither of them had opportunity to speak before the heavy door creaked inward and a small figure entered and then froze.

“What is it?” James asked sharply, barely slowing his long, punishing thrusts. 

“I—I beg your pardon my lords,” the boy said in a hoarse whisper. “I am come to bring refreshment and tend the fire.”

“Then go to it,” James growled, turning his attention at once back to Steven.

From the corner of Steven’s eye he saw the slight figure set down a tray and scurry over to the fireplace, where he began to poke at the embers and build the fire anew. At first Steven had taken him for Francis, but the boy was too tall after all. He looked familiar, though Steven could not place him, but he dismissed the thought almost at once. 

As if with the intention of commanding his full attention, James took hold of Steven’s hand and drew two fingers into his mouth, plying them with his tongue while he continued to fuck Steven with slow, even strokes. Steven moaned noisily at the feel of James’s mouth around his fingers, and daringly pushed them deeper. With a groan of satisfaction, James swallowed around him, pushing his tongue between Steven’s fingers to lap at the sensitive webbing between them. 

“Oh, James,” he gasped, pushing the fingers of his other hand between his teeth to stifle the noises he longed to make. Some distant part of him felt guilty for exposing the poor servant to their exertions, but it would likely not be the first time the boy had walked in to find someone rutting another, and he could hardly have expected less from this night and this chamber in particular.

His head lolled back on his neck as James angled his hips and drove up powerfully against the spot inside Steven that made his nerves _sing_. “Come, beloved,” James murmured, releasing his hand and taking a possessive hold of his waist again. “Let me see you, oh my sweet, come for me—”

Suddenly, James halted, and Steven looked down at him, blinking slowly. James was looking past him, toward the fireplace, his expression one of bewilderment and dawning horror. Before Steven could turn his head, James threw him sideways and he scrambled untidily across the bed. 

“What are you doing?” James hissed. “Have you lost your senses, boy?”

Steven turned his head. The boy was silhouetted in front of them, but with the fire banked up a little, he could tell by the red glow of his hair that it was Alroy. 

“Alroy, what—” he said, starting to sit up.

Crying out, James tried to reach for Alroy, but he reeled back again with a cry of agony, clutching at his injury. Alroy lunged for Steven who saw, far too late, the flash of light on a blade. He tried to twist away and the knife plunged into his right shoulder, wide of its mark but a hit nonetheless. 

“No!” James shouted, his voice heartbreaking to hear. 

Steven looked up into Alroy’s miserable face and was stunned by the hatred that twisted his expression. Baring his teeth, Alroy twisted the knife with a growl before James was pulling him away, shouting furiously. Whatever words passed his lips, Steven could not make sense of them. The blade had hurt, going in, but now it felt like ice and fire at once. Not quite pain but a strangeness he did not know. He did not know how long he knelt there, looking down at the hilt that protruded from his chest. It looked like a meagre kitchen knife, and Steven could not quite seem to understand what it was doing there. 

“Steven, Steven, beloved, can you hear me?”

James grasped his face at either side and tilted it up. “James,” Steve said, a smile coming to his face as he looked up into James’s eyes. “I do not think your squire likes me very much.”

“Oh, mercy, Steven, please,” James murmured, tears spilling out of his beautiful clear blue eyes. He lowered Steven to the bed and his hands moved over Steven’s chest. And then he felt a pain such as he had never experienced, a pressure that seemed to choke the life from his breast. He coughed, and his throat was wet and thick.

“J—James,” he gasped, looking down again. James was pressing hard at the wound, blood spilling through his fingers. 

“I’m so sorry, I’m sorry, please, m’lord I’m so sorry—”

Steven heard the litany of quiet words and realised that he had been hearing it for some time. He rolled his head slowly to the side and saw Alroy, crouched by the fire with his arms wrapped tight about himself, muttering the words over and over.

“Hush, you foolish wretch!” James shouted over his shoulder. “I shall deal with you later.”

“James,” Steven murmured. He felt faint and confused. James was pushing on his chest, hurting him. “James, beloved—”

Steven drew a shuddering breath.

**Author's Note:**

> Liked this? follow me on [tumblr](http://notallbees.tumblr.com)! Also [reblog this fic](http://notallbees.tumblr.com/post/127879092025/the-season-of-honey-notallbees-captain-america) and I'll love you forever.


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